The air is thick with frozen sighs,

where breath dissolves but never dies.

A lonely hush, a hollow space,

where time forgets a fleeting face.

The ice drips slow like grieving tears,

each drop a whisper no one hears.

They trace the cracks along the stone,

where solitude has made its throne.

A shadow lingers, draped in grey,

too faint to leave, too lost to stay.

The world moves on in bitter grace,

but here the past still holds its place.

No hand to warm the weary skin,

no voice to call, no light within.

Just echoes wrapped in winter’s thread,

a home for ghosts, a bed for dread.

And yet—beneath the frozen air,

a heartbeat stirs, a silent prayer.

Not all who wander turn to dust,

some shadows rise, some echoes trust.