• The wind is howling,
    the sky is gray,
    today would be better any other day.
    The seasons are changing,
    the weather is ranging.
    Yet another year, gone without a tear.
    When the past as we know it is gone,
    we only have our own shoulders to cry on.
    The snow will soon fall,
    the mighty will crawl.
    The cold will tear through your bones,
    summoning discomfort in various tones.
    The longing for warmth is yet to go awry,
    the thought of the unknown making you cry.
    The future has it's very own past,
    The sensible solution doesn't last.
    The riddle within leaves us dumbfounded,
    the brain thoroughly and officially pounded.
    Now the only thing to do is pick up the pen,
    and merely wait for it to begin again.