The morning is empty,
Silent and hollow,
Yet, full with hope
Of things not to be.
Awakened from sleep
but not yet conscious,
The mind stirs up
A cup of anticipation.
In the frigid air
The jagged winter bites.
Its teeth of ice tear
Through warm, tender flesh.
What will be, alas,
Is yet to be known.
The horror of uncertainty
Becomes a doomed reality.