The wishes that the cold will falter
Has halted
My mouth is quivering
And my body is shivering
My nose is as red as a cherry
And my lips are forming into the color of a blueberry

The ice of the cold biting my skin
The heat in me quivering within
The cold slicing my flesh
The slices are still fresh
The 20°F weather isn't helping
Instead, it's making me continue yelping

Ugh... I just hope I won't get hypothermia...

I sit on the cold tile
outside my class
people walking by
cold digging into my ***

the squeak and buzz of basket ball boys
girls laughing around the corner.
I work on my project
my poems
my life

and somehow it doesn't get any warmer.

The weather is important when writing a play,
Such is when Romeo and Juliet was shown,
It was a cold and raining day.

So the audience would forget about the heat,
Off in fair Verona had Shakespeare failed,
To keep mention of the begrudging summer.

I have frozen lake independence—
self-sufficiency stuck in a state of stasis,
waiting for spring or a better excuse.

I’m the last bud in the bag,
that lonely bit of green at the bottom—
each time you reach for me,
you know you’re running out.

I’m a scarf left outside,
stiff as a corpse, wrapped tight
around a post under the overpass.
Some do-gooder tied a note to me—
“Take me if you need me.”

but nobody needs me.
everybody’s got their own warmth,
their own coat, their own somebody.

so I stay there,
*******, forgotten,
waiting for some cold *******
to come along and wrap me
around their neck.

A Gulf Stream wisp, whistles, languidly,
along, a recalcitrant breeze.
Speaking of temperature, angrily.
The Pavement, can't help, but, freeze.

Branches, embarrass themselves,
with, protruding bark, baring all.
Their dream, is to one day, be shelves.
When, a messianic carpenter, calls.

Teeth clench. Bold, Blizzard, barges in,
nervous Fangs, creek, in Her presence.
She peppers, horizons, white, arduous sin.
Tusks, sign, mute alarms, luminescent.

Coy burrows, open their arms, to hug,
their Creators, for crisp slumbers, ahead.
Moonlit Creatures, pull and tug.
At soil, Voodoo dolls, to stab, Winter, dead.

© poormansdreams