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Season Of Strangeness
Overnight, the ice of unshed tears
has thawed upon her pillow,
frail foil-silver filaments
have draped the room like tinsel.
Outside, an ermine mist mantle
has muffled the garden,
softly stifling evergreens
clinking with crystals of light.
Glacial draughts of silence
gust through the house,
stark silver slivers
coldly conveying the worst.
And she cannot deny
the frosting of fear
webbing inner windows,
the desolation
that dwells within
and does not dissolve.
Isolation swells with winter's sting,
reality is slipping
from her tenuous grasp.
A seasonal strangeness,
this polar pause,
this quiet wake for the year's passing,
the lull before the last
push of consumerism,
poised on the edge
of an uncertain season.
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