Watching winter fall—her blankets
Cold but soothing
Do you see, that my heart was once
Purer, as was the ocean, and
The spring water, once, once,
Long ago. Did I willingly pollute it?
Maybe at times I did? Out of naivety? Or stupidity? Haughtiness? I don't know. But can you purify it now? Can you bring it to the trough, cleansed and holy, or is this heart, this blood, too sickly now?
Remember: those cold long lone nights, a child in the blackness of misery, clutching to you like the a babe to a mother. Now, am I a mad murderer clinging to mercy?
I remember, that child in the black, lone, teary mumblings and quests for guidance. Have I changed? Perhaps.
Cynical—of mostly myself, of others. Wary—of mostly myself, of others.
I have a soft hope. A weak faith.
A strong misery—of mostly myself, of others.
Where did the road go?
What light have I buried, so as to not be trampled by the herds in their search for lamps and oils?
I still clutch—at the cold, like a soothing blanket. Each snowflake, some ancient memory, of home, of comfort, of the days before—the days when all I knew was the love of God.