Your Least Favorite Season

November creeps in, a chill down my spine,

as daylight shrinks, the sun starts to pine.

Bare trees stand stark against skies of gray,

a reminder of everything slipping away.

I walk through the leaves, damp whispers abound,

heavy memories cling, pull me down to the ground.

I search for the colors, but they seem to fade,

as I sift through the shadows of choices I've made.

Each breath is a struggle, the air thick and cold,

with every gust, the past takes its hold.

I long for the warmth, the brightness of May,

but here in the drab, my spirit goes gray.