Tomorrow they tell tales
Bring back bright boyhood
Dumped deeply in dales
Forest fled for fickle food
Could you clamour clean
Till tomorrow throw them
Last lingering lines lean
We wont wait to weft them
Around ancient anxieties
Ego esconced, embattling
Dull days dead drunk deities
Some senses seared still screaming.
Winter is slamming my lovely town with an ice storm,
giving it a resemblance of an alpine village
not nestled in pines, but with bigtooth aspens so tall;
I should be at work today, not wallowing in rage.
The backyard trees are weighed down
by the icy snow, and they are about to break;
using caution is to avoid a death-trap...
even a red-breasted blackbird uses intuition.
Winter is slamming my lovely town with an ice storm;
it once was so sunny with kids ridings on rolling skates,
before this dreadful wheather stepped in to punish them all,
taking charge and bringing, with its wrath, drastic changes.
Plenty of snow to shovel, until late night with a will so reluctant;
my head hurts and my nose runs and sneezing is frequent...
I have a cold, and the remedy is tea with lemon and honey,
do you have any suggestions how to end my misery?
Winter is slamming my lovely town with an ice storm, repulsing spring's advances,
and February is a reputed villain conspiring, not making concessions;
impassive and imposing on a love-sick's kindness, worsening his stress....
to deny him empathy, embattling itself and not restoring calmness.
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