Grey skies and self serving lies tell
that I have been here before.
When the year has little left to sell
and soul's old injuries become again sore.

This is the cold of the year.
This is the sweet loss of things held dear.
This is the time spent wandering long nights.
This is the bittersweet memory of sights.

Gleaming white snow will set against a darkened atmosphere.

The end and beginning of all things, the cold time of year is here.
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