I awoke in dimmed light — the spirit of forging on slightly dampened. 
But a new day had begun anew. I owed it to nature to oblige with movement. 

Slow slaps of arthritic pain on the laminated floor bore witness to that effort.
The smell of coffee circulating in my nostrils urged me on. 

Looking out the kitchen window previewed a gloomy day.
Bare brown limbs prominently on display with the sun hidden behind the white backdrop.

I watched as flat and fluffy white flakes mingled with the ice-encased scenery.
The hard-crystalized nature would eventually shatter, litter on the ground indiscriminately. 

Steam from my coffee curled up into view like a typical fog.
This scene of dreariness further clouding my demeanor. 

The TV spouted the daily “Breaking News,” breaking me down even more.
“Does anything good happen anymore?” I wondered. 

The responsibility of my existence sits on my desk chipping away at my bank account and self-esteem.
Once again, screaming, “I can’t give what I don’t have.” 

My ringing cell phone urged a distraction from this misery.
Tears began to flow as another nail hammered in, another in my generation gone. 

With trembling hands, I ended the call and stared out the kitchen window.
And with a heaving chest, a wet face, and blurry vision, I broke. 

I should have predicted the inevitability of heading back under the covers.
The older I get, the heavier the weight of what life has to offer, the more defeated I am.