Paranoid Reflections

Autumn blows in, sharp and cold,

and bitter is the remembered taste

of Autumns past, shrouded in mold.

I hide in my bed, I cannot face

a world turned grey by wind and rain-

sweet Summer's youth is laid to waste.

Wat'ry-eyed November, the days days trickle away,

I lie abed, smelling Winter's dank breath

and hear his knife-like fingers rattling my windowpane.

A torturous game the seasons play, on me and on the Earth,

I hear them now, outside my door, chuckling in their mirth.