It chills like fire
It burns like ice
It's dark like day
And so bright like night
It's an oxymoron
That makes paradoxical sense
It's a pseudo-pseudonym
Filled with disguise, thick and dense
And it's become a fine mess
In the years I've been gone
The acute dullness
Of the field seems so wrong
But the change is the same
And the routine is ever-changing
And this name has no name
As we look for what we can't see