Frigid
The numbers drop
Like quarters through a slot
The cold is hard
You count the degrees
They tick one by one
Down they fall
Winter's cold scrapes at you
Leaving the grey underneath
That tight pain
A knot in your middle
As you lean into the wind
Walking briskly
Eyes ******* tight
Hands in unforgiving lined pockets
Those days
Where nothing can warm you

We revel
In the satisfaction
Our desires are unfounded
Fresh, clean articles
Resulting from what we want
Or what we covet
Is it such a sin?
Fulfilled longing
Resulting in happiness
We line our new things up
Rows of prestige
Admiring them far too much
Showing others what they don't have
Is it such a sin?
After all
We are gratified
Blissful
For if it is a sin
We yet own another thing

on the back numerous hole
quite a few too on the chest
still it clings to my soul
I think it fits me best.

says my flummoxed wife
you’re a miser hopeless
holding on a rag for life
bringing yourself disgrace.

I feign not to hear and shrug
clutching it more to my heart
feeling warm cosy in its hug
my friend the many years’ shirt.

on it lie rivers of sweat
joy and sorrow’s tear stains
time’s all burden of weight
gloomy and dark hours’ pains.

a mere cloth and I find it so hard
to throw it and part our ways
wonder how humans discard
relations grown over years.

the veins
on my hand
look like road maps
and still, I’ve been trying
to follow my heart home.
the road map of veins end
at my forearm
where I’ve etched your name
countless times
with shards of stained glass.
home isn’t where the heart is.