There's a knife for you
buried under two feet of snow.
There, you'll find purpose.

You'll find beauty.

You'll find meaning
in the interstitial drops
of burgundy that spatter
the billowy white blanket
of cold.

As your hand disturbs
the pristine surface,
and plunges further
into numbness;
you'll feel good.
You'll feel God.
You'll feel free.

Oh, the freedom you'll feel.
Oh, the freedom.
The peace.
The quiet,
the solace,
the relief...

God,
the relief...

There's a knife for you,
for anyone. For everyone.
If you're willing to dig deep enough.
If you're willing to clench blindly
through the frigid snow.

There's a knife for me too, but






my hand is cold.