The cedar tree thrives in the snow
it beckons for the cold
it gives it life
i watch it grow
I'm concaved somewhere in a cabin,
in the cold
getting old
it's a season like winter
i'm locked inside
shedding skin,
licking old wounds
you know the ones,
with the attached stigma that time would heal?
If it were a riddle and time just is...
I would be Billy Pilgrim
prisoner of the cold
just not a prisoner of war
without a means to battle
or experience with ammunition
i assume my condition
some cocked back trigger wont stop staring at me
it's only penetrating cold led
but for warmth i beckon
and the smoking ammunition will oblige
smoking hot copper barrel,
cold led in my head
Billy Pilgrim's dead
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