to this lonely world

this cold stone of a place

to build a home in front of wind

a castle of sand by an ocean

a teen in the mist of poison

make the heart die young

the flesh never age

a moth in a cage, by a fire

melting its wings

who will sing; not I

by winter she will love me again

she’ll know what’s real

when the wind is cold

with no other brighter sun to run to

she will attempt to gather heat from a stone

make a weapon of it to build a home

but muscles will be flabby

tears will be runny

and I will be dry,