The Book of Weston

Inside me is a cold legion:

thousand faces staring back.

Best to let the faces rise,

take turns trying on my body,

or else let one drown the rest

in my awful murky deep.

Many make this rash mistake,

thinking they are whole and one.

The problem is that faces float,

so the surface must be frozen,

keeping them held down for now.

But when you look into such eyes

thick and frigid from this force,

you see the faces gulping air

waiting under melting ice.