Wind In Sorrow

The softest undertone of the cold winter wind
harms more than the bitterest of storms.
The gentle biting on your frozen cheeks
licking at your red raw skin.
Hair swept between your almond eyes and
blinking dazed by the pounding high-pitched whistle.
You sway in the brisk breeze with
salted moisture stained upon your face.

And then it hits you harder still,

that cold winter wind with its unrelenting bitterness.

It envelops you like a thousand hungry knives,

piercing every inch until the shadows come

and the exhaustion takes you.


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