Cold, Complete

He stumbled, a fading shadow lost in white,
His breath, a frayed thread in the cruel expanse,
Clinging to the fabric of what little warmth remained.
Layers of wet cloth clung to his skin,
A suffocating embrace, betrayal in every fold.

The wind, relentless, flayed his face,
Chipping away at the last vestiges of heat,
Until his steps faltered, each one heavier,
The ground beneath him cold and unforgiving,
Its silence a weight, pressing him deeper.

His fingers, once nimble, now twisted in frozen agony,
Gripping a bundle that had no meaning,
The faint, distant flicker of shelter
A mirage, pulse-like in the vast nothingness,
Each glimmer a mockery of the life he could no longer claim.

The cold whispered its claim on his bones,
Turning his movements into jerks of despair,
As if fleeing from something unseen,
The horizon now a blur of black and white,
A phantasmagoria where nightmares took form.

Weariness, profound and final,
Pulled him down to his knees.
The snow, indifferent, cradled him with frigid arms,
A cradle of death, soft and hollow,
Where breaths once defiant now wheezed their last,
A dirge swallowed by the void.

The distant light beckoned, now a cruel taunt,
A specter, not warmth but a lie,
And as darkness bled through the edges of his vision,
The stillness took him, silent, cold, and complete.