December Hue

A single chirp in the unperturbed sky,

Not much to see, not much to feel,

Not much to hear, the lark sings “no fear”,

As it flew a solitary flight, a willful fight,

Dauntless in winds cold and sharp,

Zealous in song and a song in mirth,

Of hope, as a merciless sleet

Swept across immaculate streets.

 

Desolate imprints on the snow,

Of a desolate gait; Not much to lead,

Not much to follow, he sauntered onto morrow,

To paths yet undecided, footsteps soon to be lost,

In the incessant, grumpy frost, not a soul

To disrupt the cold harmony; the wind’s laments,

Sweep the destitute aside, the fallen to the grave,

Lay a path anew, an immaculate street; pale.

 

Whistling across the town,

Lay the frost open his gown,

Shivering stood me and you,

Winter painted a December hue.

 

A glass of wine, to accompany the night,

By the fire, a warmth convectional,

Not much to do, not much to think,

Not much to drink, just a brew few years bygone,

The broken man ponders on days past,

On faults not rectified, on love wasted,

On cold shoulders unsheathed, on tasks undone;

Price to be paid, as the lonely tree in the yard,

A lonely heave in the room, his misery

His regret, a man to his own, we leave him alone.

 

A signal to the right, bayonet gripped tight,

Much to fight, not much to live,

Road to glory, not much could be seen,

No fear, a merciless shot, blankets shall fall,

On guardians of midnight dreams,

Shall escort unto eternal dreams;

Brothers at hand, purpose in mind,

Legions march, to shed their pride,

Scarlet upon a contrast; white.

 

Whistling across the town,

Lay the frost open his gown,

Shivering stood me and you,

Winter painted a December hue.