I sing to my own tune
I strut to the beat of my own drum
so why has it taken my imagination
so long to conjure up??

I can already see the horizon
of this year's sun setting
and I can only say that relief
is my only refugee

Time passes so slowly
and yet i find the hours minimal
accompliments: chores amiss
a new window doesn't change the scene
I need an escape


A prism of the mind
can never capture the heart
a beat all of it's own
untraceable
but still....felt

A harsh winter
...indeed