December

The road was open and lonely. "But we have ta' ride it out..." In December on it's icy hillsides.

When I woke up, there was snow. Quiet woods nestled in gentle December souls. They all leave there mark on the world by the prints on natures hardened ground.

Many-a-day, lays Robert Frost in his ever moving tomb; the winter weather... the time of the writers birth.

Only to be choked by snowfall and whisk anyway on frosted windows of death and maybe shame. And only the corpse who have all the answers are to be buried under the demons of an unforgiving blizzard.

December, the time I was born in.
December, the time that I nursed in.
December, the time that I love and hate in.

My love and I, lay in folk song fields of snow. Her cheeks turn pick at Jack Frost kiss. Her body, pale and slender, against grey skies. Her eyes muse me like a winters sunshine. Her hair burning crimson as if the murder was conducted on her skin.

For my love is winter. She is the angel that I make in the snow. She is the breath of fast approaching Christmas on my skin.

For my love is Decemember.