Desolation

The crunch of ice
'neath weighted feet
crackles in deaf ears
as the wind whips
and the wanderer huddles
into rags long decayed.
The tundra stretches
into the nothing
and the wanderer has
an endless journey to go.
Silent as a shadow,
heavy in presence,
he is but a wisp
of frosted breath
exhaled from a dying man.
This spirit walks on,
gaunt as a cadaver,
towards the peace
he cannot see
and can't be sure awaits him.
Such is his burden.
And if he had a face,
his tears would be ice
on his weathered skin,
for Hell is a frozen wasteland,
a landscape of despair,
infinite in immensity.
And somewhere distant
in the endless expanse,
a hundred thousand lost souls
wander the frozen lands
of Desolation.