A Skeptic’s Winter

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The air is high on solitude.
It whispers by
Like blanched lips singing a requiem for spring.

Orange yolk of the sun
Sets on this loneliness
Through bronzed branches of naked trees.

Not much rain this season
But parched fear hangs like vapor
In the paralyzed night,
And emptiness keeps pouring in.
In bucketfuls.

And,
Out there,
In the cold heart of politicking,
Surrounded by withering forests,
Chrysanthemums bloom

A festival of hope in the distance,
Or a circus
Of our apathy?