Warm Winter

A long time ago. Fiery youth, telepathic nightmare, in the name of romance. A rape of a certain kind of innocence, by a certain kind of opulence, a certain kind of popularity. Suggestions, for vain creation, in the hands and the pen of another. Darkness in a heart that sought for love. And so far from love, her deception and deceit, or were these things related to love? So long ago in December, in a cold country, whose present was emptiness without art. And the art, the attraction, it tried to kill itself and move away to a peaceful and easier place, today in a different December the same feeling, at a different time of life, youth has given way to age, and age is a rebel here, it smiles at time and looks in reverse at the wrongs. And today, this memory is unnecessary but it is alive nonetheless. There is no darkness in the clear sky, and the sky has brightened, attempted to kiss the truth of personal experience, and anywhere to look, is just a place where electricity should be, art and love and living. And living is the highness, it embraces, and it enfolds, and it seeks accompaniment. And there is warmth in the winter air, a warmth that will not be denied, and it smiles in a warm way, and it senses love, and it wishes to convey the same.