It’s been the longest winter of all my winters,
More frigid, more sullen, more distressingly hollow,
Than any other winter beauty has left in her wake.
I’m haunted by the remembrances of erstwhile loves,
And crestfallen by the totality of so much love lost.
This time I know beauty will likely never return.
Winter is permanence, desolation, a soulless state of being.
There may not be another spring for me to look forward to.
Winter becomes emptiness and love a forlorn pursuit.
There is no divinity in loneliness, no esteem in solitude.
Having no hope for love at all, is more agonizing
Than lost love could ever be.