Winter.

Winter

The sight and sound of color does not exist.

It is a make-shift promise that belittles all else.

The wintertime is cold, colder than Hades,

And it goes through your entire body and into

Your bones.  Your bones are colder than you know.

The straightness of it, the grandness of winter-

Everything is moving slightly to the left.

The deceased will not dwell here,

The shadows will not move, ever so slight.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Color is like a movement that bends and waves.

Everything waves as if in a dream. 

We are born here, and then we die. 

The dying is simple in form; and then we rise

From our ashes.

Heaven takes flight.

No bones about it.