Cold winter air
and freshly piled
snow,
so perfect
clean
pure
sickens me.
I fall into my bed
hiding
from the
careless
stinging
bite
of cold
When I want to try
Hot
tea and
honey I
sip
but
nothing warms me.
I am left
numb
must be
what it's
like
for
the dead
Blankets piled high
like dirt over
a cold
lonely
grave
but mine
yawns empty, waiting
for me to
give
up my
meaningless
life
for
meaningless death
But winter will
end, and until
then
I force
a
smile
and drag myself out
of bed and grave
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Cold winter air
and freshly piled
snow,
so perfect
clean
pure
sickens me.
I fall into my bed
hiding
from the
careless
stinging
bite
of cold
When I want to try
Hot
tea and
honey I
sip
but
nothing warms me.
I am left
numb
must be
what it's
like
for
the dead
Blankets piled high
like dirt over
a cold
lonely
grave
but mine
yawns empty, waiting
for me to
give
up my
meaningless
life
for
meaningless death
But winter will
end, and until
then
I force
a
smile
and drag myself out
of bed and grave
