I've got an ice pick
to remove the frosty caverns of my heart.
On my journey, I scavenged two twigs from a dying tree.
My deft fingers at the ready.
I knew they'd come in handy.
Once the cold has flown, heat would undoubtedly be needed
in its place.
So with these sticks I'll start a fire,
Right in the center,
So when it catches on,
It blubbers and gasps for more,
until its red greedy mouth
has emblazoned the whole organ and things change.
And I'm not as I once was.