Sometimes, winter is more than just a time of year. Sometimes, it is a desolation that grows out of hurt and harm…
Break me into pieces
of an obdurate puzzle,
but what if I still don’t fit
into your schemes and dreams?
Manipulate me into shapes
that I don’t know the names of;
dress me in colors
of submission and despair.
Stretch me thin
accomplishing things I abhor;
but what if I am elastic
and spring back to the way I was before?
Bind me in ropes
that purport to protect
but all they do is catapult me
into a rebellion long overdue.
I dream me a future
I dream of songs to sing
My soul, grown weary,
yearns for balmy spring
