Cold One
Jan Juránek
Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of fashion of the age
I turn cold in the morning, after burning in the evening
All night spent with a black pen and whitest paper ever
I can't feel my hand anymore, it's sore and still
I think of ways to look for my heat, even throughout the day
The faint day when I have to be cold and hard
Make decisions, act grown and orderly and don't sing along
Thus far the day has been sucessful in its plea
The plea to keep me reeled in and tired
But not for much longer
You see, still I linger
To you or the idea of you
And me in a serene scene along with dandelion's doom
