I wither into nothingness...

             the faint trail of a star...

descending into emptiness,

             sighing in the endlessness.

How short each summer was.

            Light was an illusion,

and warmth it's folly,

            cast out in winter's howling,

moaning, vengeful winds.

            Icy veins travel inside the

Host of disappointment, the

           purveyor of tragedy.

Only weeping is present,

          inside the heart.

That heart cannot know,

         what has never existed.