Haunting and Haunting

It is a sad, gloomy, lugubrious day, with the curtains closed, the sickness released like old slaves, the tragedies running wild like mustangs, and death spreading like night fog. The stars and moon are too fearful to come out; it's too cold of a summertime to go out, with the absence of the birds haunting and haunting and haunting. They stay behind the rain clouds where it's still cold enough to make fire tremble. Dare I venture out into that void, where plastic, faultless lives are taken? No, I think I'll stay here, in my cinder block room, where my breath is as visible as the cracks in my mirror.