I swear in this moment, I can almost taste it.

On this cold morning weather
not many thoughts pass through my head
it's as if my thoughts are frozen inside my sleepy
pale yet dark complection
the cold from the nights gone through
frozen more then just a body, but excluded some parts too.

I yearn for a life of live houses,
I want my home to breath.
hundreds of little brains
and more then twice the eyes it seems.

it's consumption is my art
flowing from out of me to it
and I give it up freely
for my home needs to be fed.

it doesn't hurt to give it,
except when my brain grows dry
whether the liquids gone frozen
or exaporated into the night.

just let me taste your air
an exchange that transends time
I won't give up, or let you fall out of touch
untill your reaper claims what's mine