Peter Britt

It is the darkness of winter I loathe. With her apart from me, there can be no light, no warmth, no brightness of day. The clothes of cold hang about me, satisfied that I might feel the fury of another day, piercing deep into my skin. Never giving freedom of pain or regret, it cuts into me. Her face and the sweet scent of spring and autumn alive within me, though the leaves are hidden now devoured by this coat of purity which bites at my flesh. It takes my world alive with her in it, and casts a shadow over all things in her absence. This call I answer is one of hope, that she will return and with her bring the light. I wait. No other future awaits me but, the one she gives. Her love offers life to the world and warms this desolate place. There is no salvation without her. I take part in nothing, I witness nothing. The days show no sign of peace until her warmth calms the rage of winter in her return. Only then will I know again the joy of love, the serenity of spring or the bloom of fresh life she inspires. Only then, will I rest. This world dark and bleak holds no wonderment for me until she embraces me once more. Each day, I wait.
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“Today I saw a muse appear, yet I didn't hear a thing - until she whispered in my ear 'drink deep of the Pierian Spring'. She told me not to taste a sip but take in all I could, and the way I’d be inspired, would surely do me good. So drink I did and deeply, without a thought or care, while her sun-drenched locks of red they fell around me, everywhere. And suddenly I felt a song and with it all the words,
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