Cruel Winter
My wilting flower is wounded by the unsympathetic frosted winter crust, its head is bowed as if to proclaim and succumb to its demise.
The panorama is roofed by a mantle of deep yawning snowfall, treachery to the splendour of the customary sincere beauty.
By fortune, or its competence; the icy waters impound the curious and disorientated prey into the abyss.
The infinite shroud of grey will endeavour to obscure any minuscule glow of contentment, undeniably seeking inhospitable retribution.
The dormant and secreted existence will unearth itself once more
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