It's easier to sit still,
stalled in my car,
after all
the snow has settled.
Nettled,
now needing another
kettle of tea;
nervous,
my thermos regretfully empty
after spilling out my soul
and that resentful ugliness
in-between.
We often measure our souls
in pulls at the softened fabric
that keeps us
warm and whole,
but cold chills seep
through the door
as a bus passes,
skids,
and stops
down the road,
sleepily dulling
the threshold.
And I reckon I can be
best assured
the rest've been told
every other second
the various ways
in which you're
so
very
great,
I'm affably numb,
you're happily away,
and l'm gratingly glum.
And you're
so
very
sure,
sweet cynosure,
that life,
for you,
must always
come so naturally.
Do you actually believe that,
or is it something that
you just like saying?
I'm praying
for the winter's cyclical reprieve
but for some reason
my cynical heart betrays me,
and my dreams have thinned
my seasonal chance
at inner peace.
I wish to,
bitterly,
but it's far too frigid
to sleep.
