The morning comes with the hues of gray,
A silence pervades.
Alice wakes up, somewhere between the dying night and a birthing dawn,
And pulls at the shades.
Piping hot tea, or was it a cup of hot chocolate?
The foggy mornings eat away at the memories,
Voices come and go, some happy, some sad,
Each smothered in a sheath of bittersweet dreams.
There is no rabbit hole anymore.
The snows have made sure to hide the gaping hole.
No Mr. Rabbit scurries away,
No Mad Hatter comes by to offer a cup of tea,
Even the Queen of Hearts has been blown off somewhere,
Perhaps by the winter winds, perhaps she was never here.
The evenings resemble the nights now,
And the nights become the final verses of lost evenings.
Crackling fire impregnates endless silences,
Somewhere, a bonfire rages.
The scent of Wonderland is lost now,
Magic dies a sad, sad death.
The Caterpillar no longer blows wisps of smoke,
The moon no longer reminds her of her favorite feline,
And the Cheshire Cat smiles between his riddles in another land.
So Alice traipses in reality,
Tweedledee and Tweedledum no longer in toe.
Colors no longer burst like blossoms in springtime,
The fireflies glitter no more.
The story has ended now,
Endings, after all, are just endings,
Happiness and sadness entwine like cumbersome strings,
And the Jabberwock no longer bats his dreary black wings.