The winter of the mind is sharp and cold,
A biting frost of stress and quiet grief,
Where shadows stretch and heavy truths are told,
And aching hearts can find no quick relief.
I turn my back upon the bitter gale,
To seek a shelter built of brighter things,
Where golden rays of simple joy prevail,
And cozy warmth spreads out its healing wings.
Yet in this shift from sorrow into light,
A hollow question lingers in my chest:
Where did it go—that gyroscope of sight?
That quiet point where spirit is at rest?
What has befallen my sweet equilibrium,
That steady anchor in the churning sea?
The sacred center, quiet and Elysian,
The point of true alignment meant for me.
I trace the map back inward through the haze,
Past jagged peaks of worry and regret,
To find the embers of my sunlit days,
And fan the steady spark of who I’m yet.
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