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.
Even the oceans drift into forgetful, uneventful tides of motions that remain unnoticed for their sense of repetitive grandeur.
It takes the advent of a spectacle, the unexpected nuance, the unfamiliar terrain of eruptions, the rapture of abrasions in outer space, of never before seen clusters of relevance, to become registered beauties in an abiding mind.
Yet in all things that occur simultaneously within the sky’s dimension, too many present themselves for the senses to capture and render internally with the correctness of the vivid entirety.