Weeping Winter
Deigns his spine
In small whispers of magic.

The fingers of a ghost
He Almost
Mourned the loss of them.

Until he tastes
The fruit of rot.
And felt
Old daggers in the dark.

Like a drop of dew
In Summer heat,
He recedes towards the Sun

To await the Winter Mourn
And scorn
A mother of her forgotten son.

I think I keep checking up on people because I subconsciously wish they'd do the same.