You inhale sharply—

The air scrapes your throat like sandpaper,

Brittle and bitter cold.

The chill doesn't just touch—it invades,

Seeping through flesh to nest in marrow.

Silent winds circle like hungry wolves,

Your arms crossed—a futile shield.

The cold claims you anyway,

A lover's unwanted embrace,

Turning blood to ice.

Words die in your throat,

Replaced by prehistoric sounds—

Your teeth wage war against themselves,

A skeletal percussion of survival.

Your body betrays you:

Each tremor builds on the last

Like a conductor's crescendo.

You're a marionette in nature's theater,

Dancing to winter's cruel composition.

The sky stretches endless gray,

A colorless desert above.

Your watch face mocks: 9AM.

"Three hours," you whisper,

Voice thin as morning frost.

Curled tight as a question mark,

You wait for the sun to remember you.

This is harmattan's domain—

Where morning mercy freezes

Before it can touch the ground.