Where dreams go to die

It's a stripped down month in a stripped down year in a stripped down decade.

Many dreams have gone to die.

Illusions too.

Disappeared like political prisoners or unwanted immigrants

banished to a camp of lonely tents

in a desolate place.

Or worse.

The branches are bare.

The wind is cold.

The shortest day is near, 

borne down by darkness.

Yes, the spring will come, but full of primaries, of politics, of poison,

and uncertainty here and beyond.

Wars and drones and bombs.

More shattered lives, buildings, dreams.

Camus knew, that finally,

there is only decency

or not.