Turns out Winter isn’t in December for all of us
Some grieve in Spring others on January third
But there is barely a soul exempt
From ordeals worthy of collapse
In every wall an aching dent
Patterns shared in familiar gaps
Remember grief is shapeable
For rebirth you are responsible
Paralysis as a choice
Inertia as a vile tendency
Will you tell me when comes your solstice?
As it is a rather violent thing to heal
Yet violence worthy of the tenderness
Of what is found in our ideal
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