Chill

My lips are blue,

The color of skies and sadness.

But nothing can rid me of this hue,

Or save me from the madness.

 

My hands are numb,

They are cold like a frosted November,

And I no longer feel young,

Instead I am older than I can even remember.

 

My eyelashes are iron weights,

And now I can no longer tell the difference between the sinners and the saints.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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