Winter

Time slips by,
And before I know it,
Another day has passed.
I have nothing to show
For my meager waking hours.
Is this really living?
Slipping between dreams
And diversions,
Hiding in distraction.
What do I have to show
For my existence?
I am a Shadow,
Who steals time.
I am a Whisper,
That echoes faintly,
Trapped in an endless cycle.
What is life?
What is truly living?
Could the days pass any slower?
Can I pause the world on some cosmic level?
Enduring darkness
Eats most of the day,
And sleep consumes most of my time.
Does the sun still shine?
Or is this pale white all that endures?