-My Love, Assorted Poetry-

-Cold-

Is the cold poetic?

That much I never knew.

But bliss is warm,

And warm cozy days have blew.

Now creeps in the cold cold wind,

Amidst the porcelain skull of a doll,

Depicted in a picture frame to be

Made of glee and glass left broken in a burning ballroom hall.

I believe in misery,

Cold and bitter just like love,

Being far too painful if not made pretty!

I believe in this frosted feeling,

I believe it to be far too burdened,

When burdened being bears but insolent brat squealing.

For such is good etiquette in poetic tranquility,

Happy when the days are cold and the ink runs warm,

When lost is sane and decency lost in merry misery.

Constricting cowardly poet courage when the cold is sharp,

Like a blade I touched,

Having dragged my finger along as if strumming a harp,

Stringing a sad sappy music lover's song.

Bitter being revealing blossoms unfeeling,

Bleeding skull stuck slithering slush along.

Sharp are the thoughts that jab my brain,

And drive away all else with a smile,

Singing sweet relief in stark solitude even as their shadows remain.

So I bear my brunt of it all and cut my losses into myself.

I walked shrouded in the shadows,

So scared that I became a friendly monster baid off into blue,

In the hopes that lush kin forged in warm meadows,

Would get through to you.

Stumbles sound of swallow and siren singing,

Still now stands suffering sinning.

Is cold such a cruelty that I should be dead to be?

Is cold such a crime that you need cast me aside and leave me to rot,

In bitter frigid sea

Wishing I were not?

-end-