Winter of my Soul

To the winter of my soul I come,
hypnotic mists encircling me
in quixotic rhythms unknown
to one as humble as I.
To the edge of the abyss
yawning deep before
my trembling toes
as they inch closer and closer
to its inky depths.
Into the moments a whisper floats,
“Draw back, remember,
your life is not your own . . .
soon, so soon, comes spring,
rebirth the inevitable answer
to destruction
but hold fast the memory
of the moments on the precipice
as reminders of the cycle,
when next your toes shall dangle
at the edge of the abyss
in the winter of your soul.”

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