Yesterday’s windows are covered with old, yellowed newspapers.
Wrong numbers are written on the palms of tomorrow’s hands.
No wonder it’s so difficult figuring out what day it is or what challenges each new week will bring.
Ghosts dress in the bedsheets of these strange times.
Uncertainty has a daughter whose body is smoke and mirrors. Her eyes, numb and numberless. Her mouth, covered by a mask.
In her more sober moments, she tells me, the heart is no place for a graveyard. Barbed wire, no place for a bed.
She smells like wilted flowers and the whiskey of cold contrition.
I whisper in her ear, let us hope this winter doesn’t last forever.
RichRant 