The sky hangs low, heavy with sorrow, A shroud of dying light swallowed by dusk. The road stretches endless, ink-black and cold, A path carved from shadows, whispering loss.

Once, I feared losing— Now, the weight of loss has hollowed me out. My heart, a withered leaf, bends toward the earth, Too heavy to lift, too broken to mend.

The ailing earth bears its desiccation wounds, Silent cracks gaping like a mouth that forgot how to weep. Beneath, the tears fester, trapped in roots of grief. Above, the clouds swell, burdened with unwept sobs.

Little did the mist know— That sorrow shared does not make it lesser. Little did the earth know— That to weep is not to wither.

The laughter of yesterday lies buried, untouched, Ghosts of joy sleeping in graves of time. Memories drift in vapor, unclaimed echoes, Carried away by the wind, never to return whole.

Two roses once stood, entwined in silent promise— To shield, to stay, to survive. Now, brittle petals crumble into the dirt, Wilted souls crossing death’s threshold together.

Little did the mist or the earth know— The roses loved them too. Yet even as they withered, they clung, fierce, Their last wish: to leave behind nothing, Not even the pain they carried.