All the pretty houses look like tombs,
Trees turn to corpses,
dead without knowing.
Skeletal fingers scratch the sky
blot out the moon and the stars
and all the pretty things I trust.
Winter winds continue to howl outside,
demand entry into my room, my life.
I want to scream, run, close the curtains...
Instead, I open the window
and let the demons rush in,
because surrender is easier than fighting.