January is the worst month  for me, a cold
transition met with apprehension, a solid stirring
of ambivalence, of a waning past, boldly facing
a future unknown, unfathered, unweathered

There is this notion of unleashed time, conscious
recollection of a stream of nothingness, an entrance
to which, therein lies the open wasteland of my birth
a dark place, desolate and foreboding, oddly inviting

Though marred, weaving nervously through mangled
undergrowth from the barren naked earth, comes the
unexpected rise, a fleeting promise, tomorrow's bloom
cast anxiously upon a paltry sky, vintage flaxen petals

Here in this deserted mountain place, I don't feel free
the pleasant views have been taken from my eyes,
for now they are scaled with the quite encrusted rage
of a lost generation, already wanting, already ancient

Sonrisa  ©