A lit room on the hill.
You're certain the shadow inside looks back
and the light beats for you.

You walk so fast faces fall open.
You fill the spots with skins
you tore off the enemy.
Blue-gray shades like life's retreat
when your fingers choke.

A need killed sleep.
You're burning in December when the fever asks
"Will you love the sweat?"

In a room on the hill, the conspirators whisper.
Faces like the sky's judgement.
They'll seize the light in every room
and bend life backwards. A heart pumping in reverse.
A cold fever. You see the lit room and a man inside,
shadow tossed. A rank grin and regal stare.
And his skin tells truths, taking you.