I dug deep in the cold to recover my mind,
Amidst the ceaseless snow of my personal fjord,
Each stroke an arrogant celebration of the self,
All because i hid my heart int he dirt,
Inclined to converse with the worms,
Mounds become peaks in this dreamscape,
Something to look up at as i work with gravity,
From my shoulders i watch as i scratch and scrape,
With time to ponder every flake,
Tools Swiss red and preserved in ice,
Winds that shape and carve,
The violent hum nostalgic,
In this hole i am alone,
But this hole i've made my home.
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