| Frostbit fingers. |
| Frostbit fingertips caress the razor’s edge.
|
| Cold ideals implanting themselves inside my head.
|
| Inadvertent gestures given effortlessly by my limbs.
|
| Complacency of warmth never sets in.
|
| This is an endless winter.
|
| One where the air gets thinner.
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| A proclamation to the clement seasons.
|
| War without a rhyme or reason.
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| Turmoil is elemental and so simplistic a feature.
|
| Though personal and integral, I cannot bear to brace this creature.
|
| Brace this creature.
|
| This creature.
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| It’s becoming deeper.
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| This feeling urges my cliffs steeper.
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| Stepping closer to see the fall.
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| Negligence consumes my all.
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| Have I let go?
|
| Have I let go of what I am?
|
| I stand here with unclenched hands.
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| Retreating into my own.
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| Enduring this all alone.
|
| I scream to remember passion.
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| Unheard emotions in breathtaking fashion.
|
| Frostbit fingers.
|
| Frostbit fingertips caress the razor’s edge.
|
| Cold ideals implanting themselves inside my head.
|
| We are all the same; |
| unique and indifferent.
|
| Living as if this cryptic fever is isolated, but it isn’t.
|
| Have I let go of what I am?
|
| I stand here with unclenched hands.
|
| Retreating into my own.
|
| Enduring this all alone.
|
| All alone.
|
| Have I let go of what I am?
|
| Of what I am? |