Drip
Spilling from the lintel,
a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity.
Rafters creak, the sounds of winter
rattle through the cabin, loudly, eerily.
Memories of dead and gone,
whistles of wind, the monotony
whispers and drags through the days
like a chilling lament.
Hours burns so slowly,
an ember refusing to ebb,
reminiscences stutter
and fade, he is chilled to the bone.
Evenings and mornings
now bleed with the same deep regret;
losing his feeling,
his heart is as hard as a stone.
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