As the sun sets down, up comes a chill

The cold creeps through this house at will.

Night brings the dark, distant noises echo.

Once familiar things become foreign.

Curl into ourselves, blanket in hand,

As quiet befalls the surrounding land.

Rest weary heads on makeshift pillows,

Made of other’s arms, jackets, and such.

Morning will still come, no stopping it.

Let’s hope we make it through to see it.