Winter Solstice

A semblance of light as seen in the dark, amid transport, a mere spark; washboard streets littered with ice and snow, touched slightly by brown matter, illuminated by waxy yellow bulbs which hang above, and the semi shown moon, shaded frequent by cloud mass.

(Life is a class, an education, always learning something new.)

Your doubts are about you, your mind wonders to something true.

Traveling is innate and thoughtless.

Time travel is priceless.

A punctual prospect.

Darkness seems darkest before the shortest day of annual; winter depression has just set in, and already, it has worn out its welcome.

Depression is subjective.

Who can object?

I doubt them.

The loved ones are gone, here for a moment, then away again in the next.

We have fought, we have thought, we have cherished the moments we have lost, and then our mind is flexed.

Vexed.

We do what is best, we do nothing.

We stretch out waiting patiently for the rest, then we subject ourselves to something.

The seasons.

A destination is met.

I look outside once more before I shut the door on a winter’s day.

What have I to forget?

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