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.