Cold is the hue of my blanket,
Blue is the ice in my soul.
A lesson left by a devil,
Whose winter never left my bones.

What brews inside
Is buried deep within.
It might surface in hints
On dewy nights
And windy days,
Where it is easier to claim
The tears belong to the rain.

When the human inside
Has long been dead,
You fail to treat another the same
And wonder why it is so difficult
For people to see what you show.
To reap what you sow
Is the maxim on the flag
Of a warrior of hope.

You ride your days unto the sun
And your nights unto a faint memory
Of its soulful existence,
Unflinched by the whispers of the dark,
And wonder about your destiny
And what is to become of your path.

These battles are all within,
And only with yourself.
And if there has to be a winner,
The loser remains unchanged.

Everything life promised
At the break of dawn
Crumbled to pieces beneath
The fist of another morn,
And time made a jest
About how kind it could be.

The fury that hides inside the eyes
Is a product of the cold,
Moves that make them think
I am a harbinger of death.

And they eye me with the very same eyes.
They wonder out loud,
“We don’t see him in him,
But he must be there inside,
Buried somewhere.”