Melissa A. Howells

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 Stale December

The old familiar stale;
something about December,
feels like discarded socks.
I'm not one who shops
myself into oblivion
or who cares at all
for the commercial claptrap.

It should be quieter.
More pensive.
But out here the snow isn't falling.
Its forever green and raining.
And the trees freshly cut
once in the forest now
decorating the halls,
will soon all be discarded
onto a curb.

This time, for me, is absurd.
So much waste and temporary hope.
I've never had a memory
I could call
This seasonal dullness is
painful, emotionally flat.

The time when I was born
should be more
where its at.
Its not.
Stale December
holding its wheezing breath.
Mother and Father are gone.
Family semblance long gone.
What is left?

But the puff of air in front
of my lips.
I'm out here standing
tilted in this;
stale December.

Copyright December 19, 2012  All Rights Reserved By this Author
Melissa A Howells MELOO from her Tilt-a-World

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