Frost fronds upon the window glass owned by the night
Is cold,
And I inside this box of tin shiver within, feel old.
Still I lie softly whispering lullabies not sweet
Will he pass by
or shall I die?
My feet frozen like sleet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Frost fronds upon the window glass owned by the night
Is cold,
And I inside this box of tin shiver within, feel old.
Still I lie softly whispering lullabies not sweet
Will he pass by
or shall I die?
My feet frozen like sleet.