stuck out my palm.
the snow and stuck in a needle.
hits, lightly.
thought it was rain for a while.
thought the game had been called.
it's just a bunch of sticky lines,
waiting to be scribbled across of the plastic paper.
- you know what it is.
NO.
ain't no plastic paper.
foil it is, to be burned with warmth.
and to be punched in with needless passion of life.
