Nearing dawn the tempestuous night redoubled it's fervor growing ever slower in it's mighty gyrations. Turgid and thick in it's protestations, with an almost audible crack the horizon snapped open it's silver eye.
The brightening silver glow illuminated the year's first crisp fallen snow like the sheddings of angel's wings or lover's kisses. The trees were bare, reaching for the sky with wanton abandon and feverish eagerness.
That essential quiet that marks the start of each newborn day with the chilling revelation that the earth is one day closer to death, makes it's way into the world with every breath.
The appearance of a gentle hollow reveals itself with infinite regret, to the aborning morning that will follow yet lies nestled in the content of first passion's afterglow.
Within this hidden grove lies a child that died, in misery, before her time. So, lonely the ghost wanders in obscurity begging for Heaven to set her free from the ties that bind.
Dawn and twilight, opposites in potency, are the only times the substance of ethereal flesh can be. It becomes a reminder of those who will never find her, so lost is she.
Yet the simple contentment and radiant wonder she sees, more than compare to the disease of reason that holds her through each season, tearing her heart asunder.
The ghost in the hollow cannot follow her burning desire to be free, since the ties that bind have realigned, trapping her in the lonely hollow for all time.
With the burgeoning light, she fades from sight, granted a reprieve until the beginning of night again reveals her frightened delight to empty eyes, for there is no one there to see the denial of her plight.
Being paranoid is the biggest reason I'm still around to practice my paranoia.