Here we go; cold is here to stay. Just the right temps for icicle making and they aren’t dripping anytime soon. They’ve been hanging out for some time now. Since I have no control over their timeline, only my own, I head out into the chastened city that left the streets silenced. I set out searching of the whispers of the darkening sky, those that hail at the twilight’s last gleaming, oh so proudly. I was struck without pity by the woke mob instead. It’s the old routine at yet another cycle of time, or is it? Shameful, cynical, publicized, programmed and deliberate form of suffering ripping us apart with the gamble of all time dangling like the last remaining carrot as our only beacon of hope and freedom. I’m not into the belief of hope, instead knowing with that almighty self-recognition, that if I were to paint there would be no colors for there are so many in my entanglement with the mists of the deep, the silent and the untold.  

“Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust”:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” – The Star-Spangled Banner