Polar cold roots my feet,
Walking along an ornamental road.
Cars lay dormant,
Powdered by mother nature.
A long walk,
A long frustration.
Wishing, reliving, rewriting.
Yet the issue stands,
and is consumed by excuses,
Spinning inards aborting the likely truth.
I feel Occam shake his cleanly shaven head, yet I am too cold to feel the extent of my own self despondancy.
With warmth, comes realisation.
Gloom snows onto a clement heart, the zest of my existence.
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