The Window Lies To Me With It's Green Sunlight...

Well, it is a strange thing indeed,
When Spring arrives and then
The cold comes back in little spells,
Blowing the heart back into winter.

In winter the heart, the mind
Are fraught with deep reflections.
Weighty plights are made of this...
It is just too much to compensate with words, I think.

Timidity stirs almost effortlessly-
It draws you into a kind of stage
Bereft of the audience's criticisms,
Everyone is playing to different tunes.

So, composition seems a trial.
What would I give in words
What I have not known all the while?
I take a step that needs a purpose,

But the affront is that I'm ridiculed
In pools and waves of self-reflective,
Ebbing, concave constructions.
It is for me absence or self-destruction.

In winter, I am merely jutting mortal planes
In far off dreamscapes without the change,
Without the hope, as busts of cold seem
To control the expiations of my soul.

To put it simply, maybe justly,
Winter is just so impossibly lofty
The way it holds you stock-still
With a feeling of it never ending.