Throwing Winter

The vitreous blue glaze of winter's light fuses against the raw textures of dormant lives. Our porous souls are sealed against the onslaught of winter's desecrations as we brace for the hibernation of our outstretched aspirations. The ambition that slams itself against the shores of our yearning - orchestrating dreams that throb and ache with desire for the new - is quelled by the slowing of the elements, life's gradual crystallization into gleamingly masculine stasis.

Time drags itself across the plains of this barren landscape, fighting to slouch another pace forward into the assault of winter's air. The whole of creation is penetrated by jagged blue melancholy, seeping through the imperfections of our shells and invading our bodies like an awkward lover, all fingers and tongues fumbling towards our dark places, deep inside the recesses where we've hidden away our fires.

But we do not all sleep. We do not all hoard our flames in secret chambers. Those forgotten and dismissed, the discarded remnants of something once grand and impenetrable lay hidden in plain slight, shattering the glassy blue haze of winter's long night with a crimson chorus screaming one universal truth, that there is nothing left to lose, and everything to gain if you only try.

Winter Berries