Cold falls upon the world, 

And the average person curses it. 

Not because it stings their flesh, 

Though that is their excuse, 

But because it is like their hearts, 

Exposing them, their insides reflected back, 

Dead, uncaring … cold those parts. 

So they wish to run to warmer climes, using arms, 

Where the sun, faked feeling, is the guise they hide behind, 

Kissing their skin and cloaking their ice. 

But the sun asks a price, 

A price of damage—spots, deep lines, 

Marking their ruse, though they sought to hide themselves.

Their blood still runs frigid, in forced words and smiles, 

In a game, a game of love that does not exist. 

For to free themselves from their inner Siberias, 

Would require an honesty they do not possess. 

To feel a sun rise inside themselves, 

Would require them to confess. 

So they choose to stay as cold as the ground, 

Which will, one day, their bones surround.