My eyes unclose to a wash of
Cool white sun through thick clouds
The light rolls along my face, I
Muster to meet the day
I appoint my fingers to the
window; my drowsy eyes
Follow them to cold dewy pane
Streets below are froze dead
Despite all reports that she's gone
Winter's love clings like sludge
This tardy spring has not sprung, I
Muster to meet the day
As my fingers leave the damp glass
I ponder: will it end?
And I ask, aloud, to God, as
Streets below stay froze dead:
"What the fuck is wrong with this country?
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