Sunny winter

Short biographies of a morphing memory lane; an inconstant glare of a glamouring constant immaterial rain, all wished to be sane, yet it was the right season of zephyr, to fright elation and long for sadness, insofar. The bitter breeze flurring through the shanty rusty roof though the melting sunshine's up there, silencing my soul for painproof. I could not measure my words for mastery, my world for tears was hollow and vast; poetry was extinct, megahertz immalleable and portraits vague with dust. Each thought could feed on it prey for eternal sleep and either way I could not weep. Moments like this draw me to cheerful pansies. I learn, I weep, break free my body senses even when the sun feels cold I judge not, holding on to a pedestal into a day-night that I've caught; each day fictitious but hours of darkness bring all to reality, from odd sojourns cold as Neptune pool and bizarre moments echt as duality: Waiting for a call from home, from the cognate, the closeness with naught to offer but presence to gaze the greatness, the milky, the muddy and the nearness of a sunny winter aiding the wisdom it could aid and appreciation for a smile that is fainter