A shift in the fabric that causes a rift in the imposition of certainty.
We live in the non-remain of a fragment – a sigh expressed, not in a breath, but in a language of implosion – a wormhole cutting a dash through time.
There follows a period of mild inducements to the atmospheric disintegration of winter – a dissolution of its once solid heart of hardcore enterprise.
It is a god that dies a lonely death of inefficacious grandeur.
The sky accomodates the needs of thicker clouds.
Stratocumulus expanding with rotundity, dissolving in fringes of corpulent light.
A softening of the ways of winter, yet the cold is unabating.
The opportunism of descriptions is scuppered by the havoc-wreaking blackness.
Evening is an obliteration.
The elements are compelled to a dreadful stillness.
A glamour is cast – a magical array of sparkling intentions.
The world is intense, like a microscopic detail.
It expresses a desire to lightly combust with frigid luminosity.
A prayer has frozen upon our lips.
For days like this to never end.
Stratus hardened to epitomes of winter.
The sunlight is weak through glacial barriers.
The wetness of dew becomes a glistening rapture.
The world resides within a film of ice.
Daylight contained by arctic air streams.
The darkness never lifts.
Instead, it is infused through daylight like a photographic filter.
Its beauty, however, is tantalizingly real.
The winter sun is a projector of trance-like optimism over the frontiers of perpetual dismay.
It brings a calibre of poetic influence over the time-lapsing idiocy of day.
Night is the keeper of secrets.
It locks us in the restricted space of winter’s contrary evolutions of a resistance to change.
Sombre elegance of chain reactions.
The sky is the repository of elucidation.
The conditions of the immaculate are able to strike fear through the deficiencies of human thinking.
We cower before the gods of tremendous effect we dare not look upon.