He’s back again, demanding to be fed.
I thought this time that he was gone for good.
The black dog with the aspect of a wolf
that none but I can see within the wood.

When he is near the sun refuses to shine
there is no warmth or color in the world.
The feast of life reduced to bread and water,
No bands will play and flags remain unfurled.

With Winter solstice, shadows settle early.
With the darkness comes a certain sense of sin.
The creature, a harbinger of desolation,
That’s when the edge of sadness creeps within.