It was spring,
but winter’s woes still lingered,
ghosts of Christmas past were running late,
recoiling when I politely informed them that my lesson had been learned,
once again, in the freezing flurries of a greedy winter,
I was alone.
I’ve nothing to wonder about,
but I wander with a busy mind.
Clean hands, but a collapsing conscience.
This is not my guilt.
This is not my frost.
Nothing is mine,
and yet, everything falls upon me.
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