The silence that shrouds him every night is cold
Day's very own winter is as serene as the season itself.
Something so very vital, absent
Like the warmth of a full summer sun
Yearned for in barren months.
And here he lies mute and far from the sun kissed dawn,
Far from his symphony,
So far from a promised summer.
Lids fall over a searching gaze,
A lie so vital unwinds
But still the silence