The cold has a voice. It talks to me. Stillborn by choice. It airs no need. To hold. . Old man feels the cold .... Oh baby don't. 'cause I've been told:.
Can't stop thinking 'bout it. It fills me with unease. Out there by the roadside. Something's buried. Under sycamore leaves. . Wet grounds, late September.
Your coat is hanging loosely. On your slender frame. There's many roads to leave by. But few come back again. . I don't believe it. I believe it. . Take a look around and see.