Ice cadavers piled high outsideThe sky as grey as holocaust ashStill air is more painful than actionSnow conceals what I want to be know
False light and fake heat pretend in my small roomTruth is subjective and memories conform Apparent movement is flickering shadowSkilled poker face only works on others
Safely insolated and isolated Shade drawn, doors locked, me and my worn out rerunsMy neighbors are brave and dig intentlyI once dug too, but I gave my shovel to you