## This is a story of a man whose internal landscape has frozen over. A southern country rap journey through the permafrost of the mind. ##

[Intro, Heavy kick-snare patterns begin, layered with a dusty, melancholic piano loop and the sound of a howling wind]

[Verse 1]

The bitter winter hit a sinner with a shimmering frost, He’s counting every mountain heavy for the glimmering lost. His vocal chords are frozen swords, cutting through the stale air, A lonely ghost who only boasts a holy dose of pale despair. He paces on the pavement, avoiding the encravement Of a shallow soul that swallowed whole the hollowed goal of pavement. Wait—let me retrace the motion, a frozen ocean in his chest cavity, Defying gravity, he sighs with brevity, a deadly depravity. The city’s pulse is shattered glass, a battered past he can’t outrun, He’s waiting for the fading roar of a shading shore and a sunken sun. His eyes are ice, a priced device that slices twice through the thickest gloom, A silent witness to the violent stiffness in this wicked room.

[Scratch]

"Cold... cold soul..." "Frozen in the tracks..." "Yeah, the heater's broken..."

[Chorus, The beat swells with a soulful 1970s vocal sample and a deep bassline]) Oh, the fire died out in the middle of the night, Now he’s walking through the shadows, searching for the light. The soul is a glacier, a mountain made of blue, Tell me, how do you breathe when the frost is inside you? (It’s so cold... so cold...) Yeah, the spirit is a winter that never finds the spring.

[Verse 2]

He navigates the savage states of meditation, A heavy weight of steady hate and hesitation. His spirit’s brittle, just a little riddle in the middle of the storm, He’s clutching onto something true but nothing new is ever warm. The metaphor is megalaur, a heavy door that’s locked and bolted, His inner child is running wild but stunningly mildly jolted. He sees the scenes of withered dreams and bitter schemes on the asphalt, It’s hard to breathe, he starts to seethe, it’s smart to leave but it’s his fault. The permafrost is worth the cost of being lost in the deep silence, A quiet riot, a diet of Wyatt, a defiant lack of violence. He’s a statue in the station, a vacant vacation from feeling, The ceiling’s peeling, revealing the healing is dealing with kneeling.

[Scratch]

"Mind is a blizzard..." "No heat in the heart..." "Locked in the fridge of the world..."

[Bridge]

The sole of his shoe is the soul of the man (Homophone), Worn thin by the miles since the journey began. The ice in his eyes (Assonance) is a mirror of mist, A list of the risks that he missed in the fist of the twist. The cold isn't out there, it grows from within, Like a vine made of silver that’s piercing the skin.

[Drop, humming]

[Chorus]

Oh, the fire died out in the middle of the night, Now he’s walking through the shadows, searching for the light. The soul is a glacier, a mountain made of blue, Tell me, how do you breathe when the frost is inside you? (It’s so cold... so cold...) Yeah, the spirit is a winter that never finds the spring.

[Outro, The beat begins to strip back, leaving only the piano and a light snap] He’s just a frozen man in a chosen land, Holding broken sand with a frozen hand. Stay cold. Stay still. The thaw is coming... eventually. [Fade out with the sound of wind and a final scratch] "Cold soul..."