Fists Buried In Pockets

The venue is filled floor to ceiling with smoke
So tonight I'm walking these streets all alone
Fists buried in pockets, clenched against the persisting cold

High overhead the brightly lit billboards are advertising
Things that I can't afford
Like luxury watches, new cars and hospitals

I'm sick to my stomach with this deep fear of death
That heaven's not coming Ive learned to accept
Slowly breathe this cold air in my lungs and I circulate it

Freezing wind blowing glass in my eyes
Seems hellbent on making me deny
That I won't lead a palindrome life
Slowly exhale
Warm air
Then I watch it rise
So I lengthen my stride