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Winter Sleep

There were days in my life 
I could not even pretend to weep.
When I would lay myself down,
As though deep under the ground.
Minutes of days when I could not face a thing,
Neither hope nor promise an awakening bring.
The unconscious mind has a free will of its own,
Inhabiting the inner sanctum of a twilight zone.

When we slip quietly into life’s blackened void,
Hoping our conscious reckoning to fully avoid,
We eventually make our way into a deep winter sleep,
Hibernating like a bear in a cave, laying on straw in a heap.
The cold chills the breath into puffs of white smoke,
Winter warm in the fur lining of my protective cloak.
I roam idly through the corridors of this my other mind,
The one free of encumbrance, in no way measured or timed.

Such days always passed as I knew they would;
I arose the next morning after another dawn as I knew I could.
We thank winter for its capacity to comfort as we lay low,
Human misery has no place there; hibernation allows us to grow.
A time for healing when the rest of the world lies dead cold,
With the promise to awaken to life with fresh courage to be bold.
Most trees lose their foliage in the death chill of the winter season;
But they come back living to thrive again; winter sleep is the reason.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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Date: 2/21/2017 2:52:00 AM
It's a very special way to look at depression. I've sometimes called it a hibernation. It's just a hibernation with a few dangers. And it's a painful hibernation. At least for me. I don't sleep all the time, my joints hurt and my head is filled with cotton balls. Your poem makes me ramble, sort of thinking aloud, sorry for that.
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