It was winter all along,

no amount of warm tea could cure the ache in his bones.

Where the mornings, and the evenings, smelt the same,

with traces of loss and deceit laden all over his path.

She left him, to a bleeding comatose,

his veins, frozen.

Sleep-walking through the blind alleys, too long and damp,

for anyone, or anything, to bring him back to life.

Till he, someday, decided to swallow the damned sun

and fire his soul that was long dead.