Cold Winter Alone
A canvas of woe
The pen, a useless shard, lies still and cold.
In this abyss of sorrow, my heart grows old.
Bent and broken branches, unable to climb,
Withering drops of sunshine melt away in song
Beneath the moon's patterned, muted light,
An endless battle arranges an orchestrated plight...
Goodnight, my sweet love, for doom's destined despair
Has left a poet's song without reprieve nor care
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2025
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