Pitch cream

I walk in a weary winter wilderness, where the people I love and the friends I knew have changed their spirits with the passions and devotions of the time. I long for the earnest summer and its warm eddies of the morning that kiss me softly upon my awakening. The earnest summer that nurses me tenderly and with the affection of a rose petal falling through the still night. I long for this more than anything else, as does everyone else.

The cold winter winds bring a foreboding sense of evil with them, one that pricks and stabs at the fingertips of the heart's fabric, yet if the trees in their stately nakedness can survive this horror show, and their roots can bloom as they do beneath the frozen earth, how can it be that mankind, with his vast armada of warmth and happiness solicitors manages to chill his marrow from the inside out? Warmth comes from within, passions needn't die along with the unseen sun. No one thing, climate or concept can be the source of happiness...It sprouts from within.

Out of the night that inspires me, caramel from the humble beginnings from pitch to ditch
A great many tidings come to mind, simple, stately and innate, a cure for the perennial itch
The world outside is frightfully shallow, a mere convalescence of a bygone existence
The trees have folded their pride, held intact on the sole premise of the prospect of transcendence
Out of the day that constructs me, beige from the genesis of rustic existence
A torrent of emotions surface to the canvas of thought, sordid, structured and irate
The moon beyond is delightfully impassioned, a startling incandescence of vivid yet timid contrasts
The leaves have bent their stately status, wrenched from their roots by the decadent beauty of the cold