There is still no cure for December

There is still no cure for December

December is an emptiness, a time that's only spare,
A month that is no month, words that do not speak, 
December is darkness, death, dread, despair.
December burns my tears against my cheek.

December is a stillness that can't be stung awake.
December winds blow against my skin.
They freeze my heart and make it break.
Every year I bleed where December's been.

Each December night an awful endless dream.
But implacable December doesn't care,
won't go faster, however much I scream.
Blank December doesn't even know I'm there. 

Where am I, then? Inside, in bed, 
trying to chase December from my head.

— Amy Isikoff Newell, December 27, 2023

yes this is a sonnet.