In The Winter

In the winter of life, my hair is bleached
wispy white as drifting snow,
and my sun-ravaged hide
resembles a prune.

A frosty curtain of cataract
veils my window on the world,
and muscles are bound by aches
snaking around my gnarly trunk
to squeeze the breath from my lungs,
while arthritic ice locks my limbs.

Forsaken dreams that were wracked
in the tide of disappointment
are now drowning in a flood of failure.

Digging in the mud of despair,
one day at a time,
on a quest for the solid rock of hope,
my soul calls out for relief,
like the raucous cry of a seagull
scouring the rocky coastline
to sate its hunger.

Alas!
Hope is naught but an illusion--
a ventriloquist’s trick,
projecting a distant cry to distract
from the reality
of raven’s deathly dispatch.

As claws of pain
tear through mortal flesh
and fangs of torment
devour all memory of joy,
that cry is frozen in my craw.

I pray
for the warmth of an angel’s breath
to bring the spring thaw which will melt
winter’s icy grip on my soul!