(no subject)

[boglin]

The Death of December

A strange week, this.

Grey hours between life and death,
Impotent and bloated.

Past the turning time,
The burning fires,
The festival of the star.

Feeble hands on an empty bottle
Full of the things not done.

Not yet the new beginning;
The determination of a birthing,
Budding in the spring.

Footsteps lead to dead ends,
Not fresh paths.

Soon, the daybreak.
Soon the death of December,
And the clearing of the glass.

But for now, nothing but the waiting,
The hours of darkness before the new day's dawn.

A strange week, this.