Contemplation of Winter

It starts with a whisper
a chill brushing along your skin
Slowly, it enters
seeping into your bones, growing within.

You fail to take note of it,
You cannot even sense it.
But then, void of warnings,
as a storm, it rages.

All around, the signs of passing,
a tree of obsidian, dried up and crooked, in the midst of beings yawning.
Shutting their eyes, they fall into slumber
in a snatch of foreverness, they linger.

Now the skies allow no light
bringing days darker than nights.
Lifeless, breathless, frostbitten,
you’ve lost all resonance, blindly marching into the forbidden.

And in his gaze you glimpse the gloom,
a terrible melancholy tasting of the halting of bloom.
Suddenly, you awaken to realise,
you, are nothing but a ghost,
gone, crumbling, insignificant, lost.

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