Wearing a tattered trenchcoat and fingerless gloves he stands illuminated in streetlight's glow,

Wind whipping his face and twirling his knotted hair and his eyes stinging from the force of the snow,

Colder, colder still as all of the lights in the town blink off,

The only light awake is a sign displaying there's no vacancy for anyone to stay,

Colder, colder still as people draw their shades and he begins a series of coughs,

The only comfort he has to claim is his pride he takes in serving his country in the noblest way,

He was a hero, fought for his motherland in the closed space of a trench,

Now no recognition and the only sense of home he has is in the place of a bench,

As he lays his head down, he looks towards the lights saying goodnight,

As he closes his eyes, he catches the dim twinkling in the darkness of night,

He stands up almost blown back by the howling wind,

He steadies himself and sees a lighted building, imagining the warmth within,

Morse code,

A sense of security replaces his discomfort warmth permeating the chill,

Maybe he'll have a place to stay and a comfort in the form of a meal,

Change is in the sense of newfound hope that he feels,

But the journey is far and the wind's howling become's shrill,

Morse code,

He fights through the blowing wind hoping to reach the light's glow,

The consistent crunch of his pattering footsteps weighted on freshly powdered snow,

Morse code,

He falls, twisting his ankle, agonized moans a chillful duet with the wind,

Teardrops form and freeze on his cheek as he feels his warmth fleeting from within,

Morse code.