"Life is essentially a cheat and its conditions
are those of defeat; the redeeming things are not happiness
and pleasure but the deeper satisfactions that come out of struggle."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
There is the winter again.
Breathing down my back like a cold harsh memory drawn in the driven snow.
Tempting my mind with dreams of sugarplums but I find weathered figs instead.
Sweet deceit I find under my tongue late at night. I turn bitter with the syrup I've consumed.
I hold my tongue fast, one hand again a team of wild horses.
Yet I hold tight lipped about my past, even through it captures me in my sleep at least there I am alone.
I can tell myself the truth alone, late at night.
Running around outside my mind is unsafe.
Few will ever know the reality of truth...
ENTRY 7- WINTER WEATHER