The larceny of a December smile.
A bleak metallic winter morning.
Leaving the crescent corner of bed covers
to inch along a darkened room.
Slumbering on the wrong side of the sun.
Submerged in the solstice.
Seasoned by a planetary tilt.
The whirls of wicked wild winter winds
blow over the blank landscapes,
coded only by black white and grey,
denying the existence of a bright day.
Sleeping soundly in a hibernating way,
all systems perform by reduction.
As light is withdrawn by a fleeing sun,
melatonin changes its production;
and will wake you when dawn has begun.
Dragged down by seasonal affected disorder
there are spells of sad sad sleep.
Alerted by a lightbox border,
whose shine won’t let you weep.