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