runs ever faster
into day,
as if being chased
by the skeletal thing
that waits
at the end of the calendar—
not the birth
of a savior
or hard deadline
imposed by the manic
boss of elves;
not even
a rough beast
from the savagest hell
who's time shall
come around again at last
at the zero hour—
just the endless
night of unfeeling winter,
creeping towards our windows
like the undead from the grave,
coming to invade us
like the same old blunt
intrusive thought—or worse
yet, leave us
to ourselves.
