This solitude I must endure,
Anguished, weeping, I lie.
Try to supress the screams of my
Drowning sanity...
I mourn my emotion now dead.
A staged burial of the future,
Annhilation of the cruel past.
A secret to be forever hidden, and
A truth of continual and necessary torture.
The fateful days of January,
Like the weeping trees of winter,
Naked and brutally cold,
Helpless and strugling
Under the passionless veils of silvery gray.
They wait for the past,
The dark beauty of those 
Tranquil summer nights.


~Angela Boyce, 1998~