Winter’s Cry

Winter’s Cry

Frost drags its claws across the empty streets,

the wind whispers through broken windows,

and every shadow trembles with cold.

Branches shiver under the weight of ice,

their brittle fingers reaching for nothing,

and the sky hangs heavy with forgotten light.

Footsteps vanish in the whiteness,

each one swallowed by the quiet grief,

and I am left alone with the ache of stillness.

The river is a silver wound,

frozen and unyielding,

and the rain moves like fingers,

tapping on my shoulders,

pressing into my chest,

weeping for what I cannot name.

Night falls early,

and the stars are sharp knives,

cutting through the shroud of despair.

Winter cries, its tears are the rain,

and I listen, broken and silent,

as it mourns the summer long gone,

with me slow and endless tears of rain.