The cold sharp air grazed his skin,
Peeling icy flesh with icy gales.
Tiny frozen dewdrops and
Dustings of frost
Sparkled brightly in his black hair.

He was the morning. He was free.

Her harsh scream and lightning gaze
Tore through the charcoal dusk.
Frozen hail sliced through her,
Turning her blue, yet
She still sang through the chaos.

She was the afternoon storm. She lived for her hate.

He whispered at night to no one,
Lost and barely hopeful.
He cried and shivered, always ignored,
And he gazed at the stars with tears in his eyes,
Waiting to be saved.

He was the child of the night. He just wanted to be loved.