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 somber, yet he may not be done.

In the distance the grunt of a lone boar.

 

Time goes by, the shutters still swing in the bitter.

The sun has still not yet risen; He believes it may never.

Snow still blows and time is ticking by little critter.

“Why must this storm last forever?”

Yet, the shutters shall still sway.

 

In the Distance gleams the sun’s peak

He begins to find serenity.

The storm comes to a halt.

He creeps, in hopes to get a peek.

He finally finds happiness, in eternity.

finally the shutters close, now Knowing, it was never his fault.