The dark grips you and cold
Seeps down to the grit of bones.
And buried in your palms you'll
Pray for the Lord of Warmth.
At the break of dawn, the first
Stroke of warmth on your face,
Paints you orange and you can't
Be thankful enough.
But by noon, he gets overhead
To hail upon your skin to bow
You down in a sweaty submission.
What was a prayer once, turns
Into a curse and at what you
Beseech for now is what you had
Despised a while ago.
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