Generic

The cold descends 
and wraps me 
in its dark embrace. 
It's the itchy, 
dingy blanket 
of an asylum. 
 
The chill taunts me. 
It likes to enhance my fears, 
my angst, 
my irritation. 
It's an angry, 
bitter ghost; 
as bitter as black coffee. 
 
It haunts every moment 
I attempt to warm 
in this stale, 
dead winter. 
 
The cold hands of winter 
choke away my hopes. 
When I step outdoors, 
I am engulfed 
by the death of the crepe myrtle, 
by the absence of the azalea, 
by the silence of the mockingbird. 
 
Life cannot continue 
in the winter winds. 
It must stop, 
completely, 
go dormant, 
and await 
The Sun.

Await The Sun