Of Knives

Sleep under this stiff body winter is coming soon.
I can't tell the difference between them summer and winter you feel the same.
Warmth covered by shiver and love's dying unwillingly.
Birds flock to a place of warmth and I rush into the cold and dark unwillingly.
I don't think I should cry
—many times a knife, many times a knife will glide through flesh and bones to cut souls.