They choke you.
They weave around you
To the point where they become you.
Slowly they take over your conscious,
Raking, stinging, shredding it
With their gnarled nails
Until there’s nothing left alive.
All you are left is
A pile of splintered coal
To lock away in your heart and mourn
Without getting burnt yourself.
It isn’t even winter.
It is only the season you’ve cast with your thoughts
And its unseen winds and lightning
Prey upon your tender soul.