The cool air calls my name,
As a drunkard calls for their child.
Born of the cold, with no flame,
I am keen to answer.

“Winter is coming.”
A formidable phrase for most,
For they fear of cold most numbing.
I welcome it, with gloves off.

The icy road is our arena,
I submit the advantage.
It lunges like a northern hyena,
Teeth tearing at what it can.

Flesh exposes bone,
But no blood comes forth.
The cold should have known,
My blood is frozen, like ice.

With no more fight left,
I take one swing.
Committing a true theft,
Stealing the cold’s wind.

Fallen to the ground, it sits.
The cold awaits their cruel fate.
Instead of giving it hits,
I offer my cold hand,
And I help the cold stand.

For the cold is calling,
And I welcome it as a brother.

It all ended in divorce.
A family torn by hateful discourse.
A father, with no reason.
A mother, hurt by treason.

One son understands it.
The younger son resents it.
The daughter hates it.
A volatile composite.

The house got sold,
Lawyers were called.
The dogs moved to the daughter’s,
The older son was emotionally farther.

The younger moved into a basement,
With no walls, and a floor of cement.
Happy for a place to stay,
Promising, to never make his children,
Live this way.

Fake greenery lies upon porcelain,
Hiding the clean white outer skin.
Like a removeable face tattoo,
Maybe, a little less, tabboo?

She covers every photo of her,
With an obscure filter.
The pink a blue hues hide,
What is true beauty.

We strolled through the steam,
As it flowed from the sewer
A disgusting stream,
Made perfect from her hand in mine.

City dates are a decadence,
Rarely achievable by our kind.
So rare that the steam offers no offense.
It cannot ruin our bind.

My hands, they are persistent.
They reach for what they want.
Yet my mind remains inconsistent.
It wanders daily to new ideals.

One day I’m a saint, a lover.
The next my palms are hidden,
In a fist of rage, a fighter.
My hands remain persistent.

Perhaps it reflects my true self.
Shame ridden, and guilty of hate.
I reach for the top shelf.
My hands remain persistent.

That shelf holds what I need.
That shelf holds what I want.
My persistent hands grab with greed.
That Good Book that gives relief.

Created chaos calls for an ordained priest,
To bring order.
But he can’t, because he’s stuck at a feast.
Feeding his disorder.

A fire eats away a house like a snack,
A living Hell.
The firefighter, shell shocked, stands back.
Afraid of the smell.

The patient lays on the table bleeding,
Only seconds left.
The surgeon stands staring, hands shaking.
About to commit theft.

The priest puts down the fork.
The firefighter picks up the hose.
The surgeon takes a steady breath.

A man reads a story to get lost in it.
But what happens when he actually does?
No longer able to tell what is real.
His lamp let’s off a slight buzz.

The reality of society.
We think our lives are so boring,
So we read what others do for us.
Unable to hear the waters, outside our door roaring.

A teenage girl lays in bed watching videos.
She watches as Logan Paul,
Travel the country side of Japan,
She might as well stare at drywall.

Experience traded for convenience.

Green eyes sit in a green Toyota Camry.
His dad bought it when he was only three.
Now a cheap gift, worth more than the world.
He drives fast, hands on the wheel, furled.

His room was once his sanctuary.
Now more than ever, he is free.
Free from oppression of chores,
Free from the solitude of his locked doors.

Suddenly his universe has exploded,
His once feeble mind imploded.
Roads are no longer surrounding borders,
Now they follow his orders.

O, the simple freedom of having a car.