The blizzards of snow, falling straight to the ground,
circle in the wind and block out the sound,
burning my skin and freezing my soul,
yes the winter has taken it's toll.
The dead trees that shed their leaves, I only see a reflection of me,
but no one thinks to dress me up with light.
While the nights are going strong, the drunkards belt out their yuletide songs,
the added up years have turned the phrases trite.
And all those lost souls were tracing angels of the snow,
Using chalk though the white blended in too well.
Seeing the indent and questioning how far it did go,
If this unknowing snow angel had made it's way to Hell.
He walks on cold, desert lands,
The gusts of the season chilling him with ease.
He holds himself to “sharper standards,”
Longing for comfort in man-made technologies –
A man and his mind;
So hard to appease.
Among the carnal confinements,
None more galling than thermal boundaries.
No injustice older than the rule
Of ninety-eight-point-six degrees –
Chaining us to the depthless shoals
Of long forgotten, prehistoric seas.
When I'm with you.
I get all sorts of nervous
Down from the numbness in my feet
To my hands freezing
Up to my twisted heart jelling in palpitations.
I never feel insecure
But with those hazeled abnormal sleek eyes
What am I to think of you?
I barely know you
Yet I've become so accustomed
In wanting to feel like I do...
When I'm with you.
Your hair is all swirly
I don't know it's just different
Kinda quirky, idiosyncratic
In it's own way.
And your nose.
That little button
You're such a female.
You don't even care for me
But you do that...
You make me see you different.
Why do you do that?
I feel the cold inside my fingers
Trying to turn them into Steel
Like notches on an arrowhead
My joints will not yield
To the bending ways of the steering wheel
Metal and plastic, ice and ore
Barrel beneath my soaking shoes
And I the driver of this Ford
Try desperately to warm
Be it not to you
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed thug, who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
I’m small enough to cry for those with frozen teardrops
who can’t get up off the side of the road to die in peace
So I'll abide in this polar freezing cold silent deliverance
where a hollow warmth hides the tears that aren't for
There’s a bitter arctic wind blows right through the tree trunks
there’s no shelter leaning on the dream of the leeward other side
This winter isolation grasps on impatient pieces of frayed light
like hope a mustard sized seed of shine may move venerable
Who ever knows how long salvation lasts ? They said he died
sleeping on a cardboard comforter and blue plastic duvet;
a holey old coat stained with all what went wrong in life …
And .., I feel a sickening guilt of a warming fire's thickening
The chimney’s icicles drip an angel’s frozen teardrops
But .., I can’t find no heaven in this big ol’ world ...
wild is the wind ... January 4th, 2017
The other time death greeted me warmly,
On the night of Christmas Eve I slept.
But I woke up to have a frozen body,
Enter I did a fearful living nightmare.
Lost was my control over myself,
On my own limbs I lost free will,
Very late I seemed to regain it,
Enter I did a frightful thought,
Dying unloved by someone truly.
Something about this winter seems colder than ever.
All at once.
It's the type of cold I haven't felt in a long time. Lingering.
Something you can't get rid of.
A breath of fog in the air.
Air that replenishes you. Making things new.
Air you don't mind suffering for.
Chilled to the bone.
Fingers numb. Toes nonexistent.
But sometimes still, I stand on my porch, cold, dreaming of blankets, and cocoa, and you.
Snow falls on my skin. Chilling. A reminder of how cold it really is, and I have to pretend that you didn't cross my mind.
My skin is like ice,
And your touch is fire.
And you've melted me,
Into something I don't recognize.
No more walls, no more hiding,
No more being afraid.
Ever so slowly getting comfortable
With being loved.
Your heart is ice,
There's warmth close, beneath the surface.
But you don't speak to what your mind thinks,
You don't speak of the fire in your eyes,
Or the storm within your chest.
But I see it,
And I know it,
Because I feel that fire in your gaze
And it bleeds into me through every kiss,
And I know that storm fairly well,
It guides me back to your arms
When I feel wayward and scared.
And your voice is level and steady,
An array of soft orange at its' most anxious,
But cool blue and green at its' most loving and calm,
And I've grown so used to that
That when it's not,
Whether it be jokingly so or otherwise,
I grow concerned due to the intentions of others before you.
I'm freezing, honestly,
But I know when you're home,
I have a fire to look forward to.