Shivers

Out in the cold,
Under the fog.
Uncovered with a fold,
Of the sleeves, and a log.
Biting winds that bruised his skin,
Shaggy hair he used to hide.
Estranged from his kin,
With a brain worthy to be preserved in formaldehyde.
Numb he was but not due to the winters,
Mentally and physically.
But he felt alive in the Shivers,
Rather heretic and atheist-ly.

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