December
December always finds me cold
Like virgin snow on a dying rose
the chill of twilights sleek approach
The dying light of nights encroach
It’s ever dark for everlong
The bath of sun is ever wan
The pools of shadows swim and burn
As silent sleep reclaims its turn.
December always finds me cold
Like the ache of bones in the ancient old
The slate of sky holds no glint of hope.
We huddle deep and simply cope.
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