The winds are so icy
Texture are of dusty fences and
There is a tree so large
Facing some windows and agony
They scream while he plays in his head
The thing they ought to say to survive
Then closes his weary stark eyes and holds his breath for the pause longs to its ugly peak
Then he's walking past the headlights
Wind messing with his hair
And this he sees
A window about the very tree with moonlight
Lit like Prometheus' fire or a very happy dream
But striking nothing but a knife on a kitchen counter
He moves through a medow and past the windy symphony
He witnessed the knife cutting itself to match the sight of the tree
He's on his way to ask for help
But he's too stupid and prideful
Just like his father before him
He hates him the most and still isn't free