I question why the Winter Blues every time I step outside,

And the sky is always this bleak and elderly gray as it sheds dandruff all over my coat.

Everything's dead and frozen, a natural stalemate,

Long after the leaves have drifted to ash and the smell of chai teas and pumpkin have faded.

 While we wollow in the shapes of frozen rain eventually we'll go back home,

Where our crisp cold sheets will fold us into a cacoon after a long, seemingly endless day.

And in that cacoon we'll fall asleep to a line of cinemas featuring the wonderful sensations of when Spring awakens.