A Season for Dying

A Season for Dying                          November 1, 2005

The holidays are coming.

So what? Who cares? "Not I," said the Little Pig.

I have no one to enjoy this time of year with.

I sit in my room, staring out a shiny window,

Looking at all the happy once-upon-a-time cherubs,

And I wonder if I could be one of those.

The leaves have fallen from the trees,

And the days have grown more gray.

I never realized that things could be so drab.

A little liquor will do for me, will do for me real good,

Drinking away my sorrows for the loss of summer's sweat,

Numbing the pain that is there, to make me forget.

If you ask me my opinion, I'll give it to you, in fact,

That I consider this personally a season for dying,

And that I never can explain the reason for joy

Because I don't know what love is, what it is, in fact.

Looking at all the people, I wonder about their secret

To personal contentment, the warmth to their soul.

Some say it's Jesus, but really, I don't know,

For I said the prayer of salvation, but still feel hollow.