A sonnet to winter and seasonal depression.
Never can escape these early sunsets.
His crooked hands assail you as you sleep,
Slipping patient sickness through the silence
The tiny cracks he makes are hiding deep –
Manifests of days you’ve never started,
A staling pot of long-forgotten tea –
Victims of some fleeting spark departed
All resting heavy on your aching knee.
Binding years care not for your defiance,
Ensnaring you as careful as you keep.
Broken framework stealing self-reliance.
The winter’s toll on synapses is steep.
To keep, to catch, to count another year
Enclosing you in unacknowledged fear.