there comes a point in the year,
where all nature becomes clear
of snow, and frost, and the flowers
blossom again, yet my innards stay
icier than december’s roads.

the darkened skies of november nights
slowly arise to luminous highs,
and it’s as though mother earth has
returned to her schedule as the
worst of winter dies and withers.
it drags my motivation with it, along a
blackened, leaden chain.

as the birds, the bees,
the people in the streets,
rejoice as spring grows a new leaf,
i am restrained to my bed,
with a growing void in my head.