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It begins as a sordid space without definition, with the nebulous boundaries collapsing inward, enfolds the air thick with the dust of remote faces, enwrapping you each time you think of freedom. The winter of depression arrives detached with heavy dense fog featuring as your desolation that configures covertly your misty psyche, shape-shiftng to self-design of vague despondency. The somber sky falls flustered on convoluted awareness, wrecks the crown of bejeweled night’s exuberance. The sickle moon slices the shimmer of its fading glow, dissolving at the brink of the pervading expanse of blue. In the dungeon depth of opaque onyx solitude the ground hears the feeble footfall of stillness. Glacial sense of chilled passion congeals stealthily the excavated exposure of lonesome inner secrecy. Painfully curled broken wings of the petrified free bird can’t fly in the lacerating chill of the woeful winter, envelopes surreptitiously the frosted senses, the fervent warmth of sanguinity freezes unfelt. The sky of longing falls frozen through the morose mist on the permafrost of abandon in the arctic silence, where the icy fountain of the forlorn cold heart, gets buried deep in the gelid blue of seclusion. But somewhere inside of your self-devised sphere, perceived not above, not beyond, but deep within, the seed of patience germinates to defy desolate winter, splits the ice, sprouts spring splendor of redeeming hope.

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