a deceitful December, an almost warmth,
       as shades of blue and grey
          wrestle for control and offer
      a chance to breathe again -- memories . . .

  an almost silence cloaks a churning,
      embracing a yesterday never meant to be --
    a promise at war with itself,
       lapping hard against the debris
          of countless empty encounters . . .

   but I always return to this prison,
       trying desperately to purge the dreams
        so fancifully given, so sneeringly                withdrawn --
    creating a new white canvas
        beneath a gull's happy cry . . .