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I sit inside, under the sheet, in bed.
The cold grasps the window with mighty hands,
Tap, tap, tapping against the pane it said
Softly, a gentle nod; it understands.
It feels the pain that bites my soul and heart;
Beckons and begs me to move on and quit
Feeding the blizzard so I may still start
To see a Spring. I am a hypocrite.
But I so crave the death and birth cycle.
The cold to hot to ice to fire that rage
Inside or under the Tower Eiffel.
For in this play, my bed is but a stage.
Yet, winter was once my distant lover,
Now summer must share me with another.