December rolls around,
lays a blanket of herself on the ground where comfort lives in sound,
like a gun laying cold on the ground with no way to spell it out.
there's still much to say of a gun left down.
Most of me is elsewhere wondering shall we hear a song
or shall we live one soaked to the hone.
I'm suspended now, hanging in the gray of a weather heavy cloud, soften my face
and bow to bid toy farewells to the ground for now
part of me is sinking and pondering,
hope is a gracious term, aligned with the faith that reason has a course to take,
may it be the just one until then I will drown, anti to down without a fit.
How glorious is it?
Bound in sound, even and weightless and free from wrist to wrist