dark morning

the cold has not yet reached the bone
in other places they would call it mild
the coming winter finds us each alone

we have gone past the season to atone
long past the one when we all ran wild
the cold has not yet reached the bone

we hope for silence instead of the phone
our nerves down to nubbins are filed
the coming winter finds us each alone

patiently waiting as i the razor hone
what difference between a man and child
the cold has not yet reached the bone

once we were frenzied now still as stone
the movement's dialectic reconciled
the coming winter finds us each alone

the loud birds of summer now are flown
the trees no longer in their colours styled
the cold has not yet reached the bone
the coming winter finds us each alone