The bitter cold
It is known to young and old.
To stay out of it we are told.
It stings like a sharpened blade.
Why was it made?
In this room I sit and ponder.
Staring outside at the blue yonder.
Silence…
Just dead fucking silence…
My hands are cold to the touch.
I don’t care.
I am tired and weak.
It doesn’t matter.
They were massacred.
On this very day.
Like the touch of death itself. -
The bitter cold.
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Oh, the angst 
Nice!
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