By some unjust miracle I awoke
again today. How? When the wasted days
and hours accumulate like a grey cloak
of soot-heavy snow; the sweet-sick malaise
sticks and smothers me. Regret, my old friend,
tucks me to sleep under these covers,
while, minute-by-minute, the flakes descend.
How will it be when the morning discovers
me hiding beneath shame’s blanketing fold?
Like Napoleon’s army in defeat
wondering why they’d marched through the Russian cold—
too exhausted now to repent, retreat.
Dare I hope for the thaw of the bursting dawn,
fearing judgment when Winter’s curtains are withdrawn?