Cough outside through the cold and the smoke
while I lay in the road and choke on exhaust:
with slush islands in the street,
and the snowdrifts with miniature graves dug by feet;
everyone through their day all fleeting away.
Old friends passing by but have nothing to say.
The power lines seemingly stretch into nowhere
and I want more than the crosshair's of cupid to go there.
I've been disappearing for a while
out in no-gravity air,
to visit other planets
and they aren't as suffocating.
Loneliness wears me over it's body when it's cold outside,
and for the third day in a row it's ten below.
I'm glad I make a good something,
but I wish it wasn't a coat,
cause I feel more like a castle with a honey filled moat.
I feel like we mean more than the pains that we tote.
We're patched up old boats barely keeping afloat.
My hands bend like an old dog's bones.
The wind calls me naive
the steam gasps I won't win.
So I sigh with the smoke and relax my tired limbs.
I like being the bed you lay so comfortably in.
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