When the world is cold
And I am sick of it,
I run back into the arms of Koschei
And feel more lifeless
Than all the lifeless things
Sitting on his shelves
And hiding in his attic,
Bejeweled girls and
fair Ivan Tsarevich,
I am told the same story on repeat
And his words somehow hoodwink
Me into believing
That world's still a shiny, beautiful thing,
That it isn't out for my blood
Like in my dreams...
©eos
