Winter’s Crown

The frost bites sharply at my boots, a quiet thief stealing warmth. The world hums in silver tones, its breath a shiver brushing my crimson cheeks. Each step cracks the silence, a fragile defiance in a realm that stills itself before the year’s end. Trees wear crystalline armour, their branches mimicking brittle fingers, whilst clutching at the pale, indifferent sky. The earth beneath me trembles, thin as a pane of glass, each foot step a gamble, each crack a chime of survival in this frozen scene. My breath unfurls, ghostlike and restless, carrying the weight of months undone - Regrets that sting, hopes like fragile snowflakes, unique, imperfectly crafted, melting too soon. The air tastes sharp, like memory laced with frost, but I swallow it whole. The world is a frostbitten canvas, its hues drained by the cold’s steady hand, edges blurred by winter’s sigh. Yet within the ache, there is a strange beauty: The way the chill settles deep, an unrelenting grasp you learn to crave. And so, I walk on, my thoughts trailing behind like naughty shadows. Each step marking time as the frost whispers its secrets. This is the year’s final breath, its splintered waltz, dancing on the edge of stillness. And I wear it like a crown - each shard of ice a fragment of truth, sharp and cold, etched into me.