It's winter already, I can hear the quivering winds snapping at the trees and hills, resting at wretched windows where lovers watch out the sky change hues and the hopeless hope for a less harsh winter, nipping at our numb noses, chilling bones, carrying along stories from lands of bright but cold sun putting summer to sleep under heaps of snow. The red Robins' choir flies out of nests to find food. I love how the sky is always grey engulfed in its own shadows. A touch of frost to the nature stealing all its pretty colours bathing in pearly white, a world drifting to a slumber feels like eternal holding things still in the dead of the doldrums. I see the winter grieving over the living deads whose hearts been clad of frozen frenzies and deceased dreams. The cold seems unforgiving I hope it hushes down the fiery figments from my longest winter one that has settled to my soul, staining my words, stealing my warmths. I hope I survive the frigid desolation creeping into my heart every winter since he's gone. I hope he never wins not this winter not the ones to come I will forever keep wishing over shooting stars and search for rainbows in his bloodied sky underneath spread the picturesque snowy lanes where my eyes will trace the remnants of our memories scattered in the air like the snowflakes. Damn if I could tell you the rotting roses shy on my bones more than ever in the depths of winter. They failed, they failed to bind strings across our hearts and therefore they never symbolised spring in my garden but rather a winter solstice where a heart shall never want to rise in revolt, a heart shall never try to fight the colds inside. It will just write poetries under clear, cloudless skies and wait winters to pass swiftly, silently without making much of a stir. Love was a pretty little thing sacred, sanctified like a heartbeat shared a heartbeat felt until you made it into a game until you froze my naive heart to death. Since then winters hasn't been any less of a wound that never gets to heal.
Abridged into a tale, six summers old of love and wails that couldn't reach a heart, cold. A saga of sail to the silent sea with ghastly shores and wrecks unfold. He was so handsome living in a mad house with a view of gold underneath lies the trails. When my ship rolled in that vicious night his island of artifice dressed like a young country lad left me drenched in all red. He was the wicked king to his cursed kingdom where even darkness fears to cling. His demons knows no mercy and a stare can kill at once, my heart in his frigid hands fits in so flawlessly as if it is where it was always meant to be. I perhaps wasn't the first to ever burst into the sea only to never return to see what the road "not taken" has to offer me. The water was frozen and the wind so chilled I couldn't discern the desolation creeping in. His touch brought forth a glow, gleaming like glitter, an euphoria of millennium in the dead of winter on the land of ill- starred where star crossed lovers meet only to be parted. The island was a hoax and everything's airy the forests drunk on the convictions of forlorn love of maidens who are sent off, heartless only to live a life of contrition. The days were bright but equally deceiving, magnificence bustling in life strings of trapped souls hopeful of clear days and a good sail back home.