Shutters.

Winter has come, the day is cold.

The ‘day’; now only night and depression come in for a close.

He sits these 81 and alone.

“When will the sun return?” he says as he loathes.

“Why must the sun not here for me?” weekend by old withered bones.

Battered and broken, he fears what’s to come.

The shutters bang in the wind, he fears no more.

Filled with sombe...

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