January
January
January pouts like a petulant child,
Crying with rain and dreary.
“Why is fun out of favor now?
I wished for more attention and approval,
A relief from fury and fever pitch of perfecting,
A time to revive and renew, and now
Rest and relief have cunningly come, and yet
Suddenly, hollowness and longing,
Not for the flashy and flamboyant past,
But for the manger.
Copyright © Sunlite Wanter | Year Posted 2019
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