December

It is the same December as your death. You don't remember... Once again that street at both ends is shrouded in mist; no one else passes by, that his face might prevent this wickedness: calamity has got hold of my fate. Rigidly I stand. O door, ordained for arrival and turn in love's blind pair of arms, I enter you as a thief in the houses of strangers, reluctance opens its floodgates upon my ascent. I am hissing, blood out, blood in. The old darkness will have that I listen to its secret known to the festival night of sleep. the whispering... but it cannot be: I am beneath the lowest watermark of sense and reason, I am beneath my reason for being, step for step within me grows a hammer, hammer. Is this your room? This is December, the one of your death. You don't remember...