Whispers of The Cold

Whispers of the Cold

I sit beneath a silver sky,

Where winter’s breath goes drifting by.

The air is sharp, a silent bite,

A cloak of frost, both dark and white.

The wind, a ghost with frozen hands,

Paints icy lines across the lands.

Each breath escapes in misty sighs,

A quiet cloud before my eyes.

The trees stand bare, their voices still,

Their branches bent by winter’s will.

No leaves to dance, no birds to sing,

Just empty skies and silent wings.

The ground is hard, the earth asleep,

A frosted veil, a frozen deep.

My fingers numb, my thoughts run slow,

As winter whispers soft and low.

The cold wraps tight, a bitter friend,

No warmth to break, no flames to lend.

Yet in this chill, a peace is found,

A quiet hush, a stillness sound.

The snow, a quilt of silent grace,

Falls soft and pure, a white embrace.

And though the cold may bite and burn,

It too has lessons we must learn.

For in the freeze, the mind stands clear,

Each icy flake a frozen tear.

A time to pause, a time to feel,

To face the truths the cold reveals.

So I will sit, though fingers ache,

And watch the winter softly break.

For in the frost, my soul does see,

A quiet strength inside of me.

Disclaimer
The information provided in this Article post is for general informational and educational purposes only. While we strive to ensure accuracy, we do not guarantee that all information is up-to-date or error-free. The content is based on personal opinions and experiences and should not be considered professional advice.