his hands are cold <br />forget ice, it is inferior <br />imagine the hands of <br />the dead <br />touching you on one <br />of those blackout nights <br />at 3 a.m. <br />where silence is like <br />a stainless knife, <br /> <br />he feels death is near <br />but he is arrogant <br />he has no fear for his heart <br />is a drum <br />beating and beating memories <br />of his sex-filled life <br />the cat is inferior <br />upon his shamelessness <br />he will both die and not die <br />he lives <br />and that is for certain <br />to the eyes of his unbroken <br />seeds.<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/those-cold-hands/
