Matchstick Macrame

by John
(London, England)

It'd bed ripping icicles weather outside
winter is here and I'm trying to
hide
but the cold finds a way in
my head starts to spin or it could be my eyes,
or this room's a disguise for an orbiting ship

I slip into unconsciousness although you couldn't really tell unless you knew,
I know 'cause my toes are blue, my breathing's slightly sharp and Jack Frost is here with a harp
to play me out.

I wander once again, but
it's no big deal that I can't feel
my fingers anymore
and why doesn't the cold ever
creep out of the door instead of
always creeping in?

someone pinned a tail on me
mistaken for a donkey?
I often am

the old dog ambles on

Timmy was a terrier and we used him as a ferretter along the River Lune,
t'weir were theer and we were here and blue sky diving all the way,

if only yesterday had learnt to swim and I could stop myself from diving in

carpet slippers on a parquet floor?
to stop me slipping if you're wondering what for.

It's that time if the time is now
and wondering why or how
won't make the sun shine

it does it automatically.

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