A plethora of emotions
filling space in an empty cabin.
The ancient stove is running,
but bitter cold eats bugs
while killing engines in the streets.
Icicles of symmetry line the eves—
touching one another slightly,
adding weight, and causing friction
as they fall.
In bed, cuddling up with blankets,
but never feeling warmth.
The TV glares at a single shadow
who tunes out words that jumble together.
Thinking, but not writing,
Dreaming, but not breathing.
Feeling, but not acting.
Dead like the souls in the cold,
but awakened to the silence in the street.