The wind is whipping through the street,
and whistling through the trees;
the cold is settling in the ground,
and aching in the bone.
A sailor sits high on the mast,
lost in a dream of summer seas,
but winter’s close upon him now,
and battered sails moan.
A woman prays in an empty church,
spending hours on reddened knees;
the comfort she craves never appears;
there’s only an empty throne.
It’s always best to expect the worst,
and sad things come in threes;
even when you can count on friends,
in the end, it’s you, alone.
December 8, 1998