The Early Dark

The mornings turn, the chill begins to bite,

not sharp, but damp, an ache that settles deep.

It steals the light, and shortens every night,

a promise winter's cold will surely keep.

The streetlights click, too early, thin and weak,

they bleed across the pavement, wet and black.

And in that sickly glow, I hear it speak,

the season's voice, whispering, 'You're back.'

It's not the snow, or ice, that brings the dread,

but this slow fade, the world turned muted gray.

It sinks its teeth into my sleeping head,

and pulls the color from the brightest day.

It takes the will, the push, the spark, the fire.

It leaves me hollow, watching leaves turn brown.

And every year, it drags me lower, lower,

until I feel I'm buried with the town.