A Sojourn With Deathly Swans

there is no fire in the lavender skies of February it is as if all that exists with warmth, light and desire has fled to the future it is here that the white swans muse and ponder slowly stirring in hapless meanderings through a stoic sluggish pond it is here that I find myself coming to belong nestled in the cold casket of a wind still winter spring has shown its face with flowers soiled, stagnant and sour nature cultivates somber green to justify the incessant gray the mossy sludge of rains fallen in my desolate pall where there are no colors in my empty heart for I have imprisoned hope and lost the key somewhere in the dire fog this catatonia speaks tones of wretched gloom that paralyzes with foreboding dullness its ghastly numbness buries the ghosts that haunt for gray gives my soul a vapid and sullen vacuity I tread bent and worn in this wasteland seeking a sojourn with deathly swans I am empirically lost in the shroud of shielded gray skies hiding myself in the mists of passionless pain