Fog shrouded day.
Mist and shadow twine, blurring outline and horizon.
Forms are fluid,
only emptiness holds its shape.
A season without definition or reason,
A time when reality and myth, with no line between,
are reformed to fit purpose and inclination.
From the mist, a new reality arises,
mistaking prominence for substance,
crowd gives them strength,
clamor makes proud the
shadow slogans so boldly proclaimed:
Day is night!
Victory is ours!
Ours the might and therefore the right!
without peer or plan, strut and preen
and in the falling gloom, their followers gather.
given hope by shadow plans.
Their desperate dreams, denied the light,
grown twisted and grotesque,
ready to swallow any bitter pill to ease the need.
and so with torch and drum they march.
Hear them come.
And in the candle’s flicker we wait,
for the season of the longest night,
is also the birth of hope.