Grief drops down my eyes 

In spotless disguise 

Into the winter's ice

Like the smoke from a cigarette 

That attempts to merge with the air.

 

The gloomy weather

That precipitates despair 

Tries to be less grey 

And a lot more fair;

Am I a frequently visiting guest 

To this benumbing season 

Or is it the other way around?

There's talk of sound healing 

But absence of sound.

 

 

The windowsill embraces

The last present drop of water 

Before the underneath coldness

Captures it into monthly stillness,

And in the absence of happiness 

Grief drops down my eyes in disguise 

To get seasonally lost 

In the winter's frost.