In a few years,
we’ll all turn cold.
A chill down your back,
the breeze grows old.
And there’s a light,
that freezes the storm.
That rounds the voices
end up warm.
Blanket of comfort,
a soft green bed.
Below the frost,
lay down your head.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 2:26 PM UTC
In a few years,
we’ll all turn cold.
A chill down your back,
the breeze grows old.
And there’s a light,
that freezes the storm.
That rounds the voices
end up warm.
Blanket of comfort,
a soft green bed.
Below the frost,
lay down your head.
