When I spoke to her in the morning,
The words, they lingered in my throat,
She was angry, yes, but why?
I know not.
She left in a hurry, left a messy room behind,
left her mother’s ring and left her tattered waistcoat behind,
She left unquestionable answers, and unanswerable questions behind,
She left, a broken man behind.
As I stooped to pick up the pieces,
I was drawn to the only light that flowed through,
a broken window, I looked, and saw beauty,
and I saw hate.
The streets outside are white with snow,
The river is frozen in rectitude,
This season has hope of spring in store,
But is itself the Season, of solitude.