All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies

December falls upon my eyes;
I am scared as hell.

The numbness of limbs,
the sorrowful gray
that casts over me and you
and what we once used to be.

December will be the death of me,
I know for sure
because this time
I sit alone with my sword unready
and the candle flickering.

The winds will whisper
in my ear, things I already know
and unto you,
the realization that will never come.

December,
I am afraid.
I am not strong enough
to face you.

These are the hours of woken dreams
When silent screams
A recurring theme

Or so it seems

These are the hours of trepidation
The longer the wait
The greater the apprehension

That it just might not happen

As golden gleams of summer fade away
Then on the backs of falling leaves alight
Pallidity becomes the autumn day
And languor shrouds the cold and listless night

As fog benights the lonesome starless sky
I perch here on the window pane reclined
The songs of stridulating crickets pry
Into my solitary mind and find

It hard at work and trying to devise
Elaborate schemes to get out of this place
To where there're lizards, hummingbirds and mice
I feel the urge to hide, to hunt, to chase

Until dawn breaks the shackles of this blight
I'll be here mooning till the morning light