It happens the same way it always does-
blissful ignorance turned bitter recognition.
A morbid reminder which seems to slip from my consciousness until I am forced to peer into the glass of reality.
And when colors lose their saturation and the frigid air loses its sting,
I know it's February.
Once again I am hollowed, whispering to the weeds and to the infinite indistinguishable rows of immaculate marble.
And once again my words do not break the ice which hardens with every new second month of the year I endure.
And yet I endure.
Until it happens again.
The same way it always does.
The same way mild fall submits to the desolation of winter.
The same way a fractured soul is forced to shatter further, because it is February.
YOU ARE READING
The World is Gray and Other Truthful Lies
PoetryWhere Faith spills everything in verses and ramblings. If the world is grey, this selection of poetry is black.
