Drip
Spilling from the lintel,
a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity.
Rafters creak, the sounds of winter
rattle through the cabin eerily.
Memories are dead and gone.
Whistles of wind, the monotony
whispers and drags through the days
like a chilling lament.
Hours burn slowly,
embers refusing to ebb,
reminiscences stutter and fade,
he is chilled to the bone.
Evenings and mornings
now bleed with the same deep regret;
he is losing all feeling,
spending his last days alone.
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