A shadow creeping in with the changing winds.

Like the chill of autumn settling deep,

it whispers of something darker,

a strange kind of emptiness that fills me.

Each time, it haunts me,

a reminder of dreams unspoken,

of the things I can never seem to reach.

 

The moon hangs heavy in the sky,

full and bright, casting long shadows

on empty streets,

and inside me, the weight grows.

It’s as if some witchy spell

has cursed me with this endless cycle,

a cruel joke.

 

I see it like a horror flick’s flash of red,

bright against the backdrop of hope,

a stain that spreads, slowly consuming

all the dreams I’ve carried,

turning them to dust in the graveyard of my heart.

 

The pumpkins grin with jagged teeth,

their hollow faces glowing bright,

and I see myself in them—

the emptiness behind the light,

the strange way they mock what they cannot hold.

How twisted it is to want something so deeply,

to feel it close,

only to find it slip away in the fog,

leaving behind nothing but the red echoes

of a dream that never takes root.

 

I walk through the days in a haze,

each moment stretching longer

as the shadows grow.

There’s something about this season—

this strange, in-between place

where hope flickers like a candle in the dark,

and yet I cannot grasp it,

cannot hold it tight enough

to make it stay.

 

The skeleton trees stretch their limbs

toward the sky,

and I wonder if, like them,

I am destined to stand barren,

stripped of what I long to hold.

A flicker of light remains,

but it feels fragile,

as though it could be snuffed out

with a single breath.

 

And yet, through it all,

there’s a strange, twisted sadness,

a hollow ache I can’t quite name.

It lingers at the edges of my thoughts,

haunting me like a ghost,

telling me that maybe,

just maybe, this will always be my season—

a time of waiting, of wanting,

of wondering what comes next

as the cold settles in.

 

-Blaine Ford