The wind, a mad dog, howls its grief,
through alleys choked with greasy rain,
and I, with him, find no relief,
from this soul-gnawing, endless pain.

Life, a grotesque, drunken brawl,
where laughter dies and spirits fall.

The moon, a skull, hangs pale and thin,
above the rooftops, cold and stark,
while shadows dance in a macabre din,
and shadows lengthen in the dark.

Love, a fragile, flickering spark,
extinguished by the cruelest mark.

The sea, a monster, roars and raves,
against the cliffs, a raging beast,
and death, a gaping, hungry grave,
awaits us all, at least, at least.

Hope, a whisper, barely heard,
a fragile bird, by sorrow stirred.

But still we cling, to life’s frail thread,
to memories, sweet and bittersweet,
though joy, like fallen leaves, lies dead,
and shadows lengthen, cold and fleet.

And in the silence, we can hear,
the whispers of a dying year.