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