In the cold of what should be winter,
leaves yet gracefully fall,
rain pounds on the window,
a ghost haunts,
and memories linger.

In the onset of the night,
his sorrow heightens,
he is outraged,
he weeps.

The howling wind upon his shutters,
a constant blight,
strains his ability to cope,
as he hugs a pillow to his head.

The morning light glares through,
and he is awakened,
but his sorrow persists.

As if carrying one hundred extra pounds,
he hunches and makes way,
for the kettle.

His eyes are low, and sunken.

His skin is pale.

He trudges on through his house.

Darkness.  Lightness.
It is all the same now.

He begins to pour over his life
and remembers her.

He remembers the way she
was so warm.

He remembers her fondly.

His memories help him to
sink further into depression.

Further into madness.
-lonely

The life of regret?