Where There's Smoke

The snow falls in patterns

that compliment your moods.

It's coloring your face a differnet shade

and it's poisoning your blood

with a brand new kind of love

It's puncturing your skin

Did you know what you were getting into?



The world asleep

thirty bags empty

Is this how you want to feel?



The snow is melting now

(the temperature makes this feeling pure now)

and flowing through your veins

(just a little bit more now)



A made bed is better than

making your way into a coffin