A cold January night.
Ice keeps me awake on the edge.
The wind howls its sorrows.
How I wish I was in bed.
But it isn't the cold that bothers me.
It's the cold thats inside me.
The everlasting chill of guilt.
The stained piss upon my window.
I look out over the river and I see the trees.
Dead, cold, yet still there.
Not moved by the harshness of the wind.
Still the same old tree through all the wear.
Because they know that spring will come soon
Perhaps one could learn a lesson from them.
Perhaps...
