Contributed by Mary Wessling
Tumbling through my tumultuous tomb,
created from the melancholy of my mental womb,
I feel as though the weight of darkness will eternally loom
and its inescapable cold grasp will squeeze my residual joy into vacuous doom.
As solstice nears, I slowly reappear
from my dim den of feigned emotional decadence and Zen.
My cadence brightens with the afternoons I once adored.
Light rekindles the lost flame of happiness I could no longer afford.
Finally, I venture from the confines of my monstrous mental state
to gaze upon the trickling snow awaiting its inevitable fate.
As the sun gradually matriculates,
I gaze upon its rays, peering through the stunted deciduous trees,
and the numbing emptiness within me leaves.
A photo, a chance, a lasting glance
at what was and what is, regardlessly giving me bliss.
Snapshot, I fought, for what I lost
when the leaves fell in the breeze
and the snow weighed down my rotting thoughts
before the light came across
my tumbles and metaphorical tomb
bringing relief to my isolating mental womb.