There is the winter again.

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Breathing down my back like a cold harsh memory drawn in the driven snow.

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Tempting my mind with dreams of sugarplums but I find weathered figs instead.

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Sweet deceit I find under my tongue late at night. I turn bitter with the syrup I've consumed.

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I hold my tongue fast, one hand again a team of wild horses.

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Yet I hold tight lipped about my past, even through it captures me in my sleep at least there I am alone.

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I can tell myself the truth alone, late at night.

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Running around outside my mind is unsafe.

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Few will ever know the reality of truth...