I sing my songs as muffled truths,
As knitted comforts in her presence;
With her nails like icicles beneath a
Shadow moon, I sing my sad songs
Alone by a fire long expired:
Like a hell that never came to be,
Yet a hell continuously begging:
Unleash me with your fire eye,
Thaw this frozen hell; but I sing
My songs through knitted socks,
I keep the aching feet frozen
As I sing my final hymn in joy;
Never again to ponder incineration,
Never more becoming less than
What I was sent here to be: free.
