I am cold

I am cold

There is little point in denial

When I exhale

The air turns to ice on my lips

Fingertips clutched

To my palms

Drawing blood

The heat of my heart

The only warmth

I know,

Clasping the truth of me closer

Than my soul.

I can hear it fluttering

It would sing if only

I wanted to be heard.

There is a voice

In there somewhere

Hiding out of sight

Fearing it will be held to account.

God only knows for what

But the fear of oversight

Is all I have

To distinguish my thoughts

From the background noise,

The hole in the universe

Less than a misstep away.

I am too loud

Too quiet

Too big, too thin

Whenever I think about failure

I realise it happened

Long ago.

Lost in the aftermath

The destruction of innocence.

Songbirds are silent

Beaks wired shut

The Buzzards took my eyes

Before I was old enough

To make my way.

I think that is what you want me to say

Whoever, whenever you are.

The weight of the words

Crushing the air right out

And each breath

Whistling in painful lament.

A stream so cold it steams.

Every word I ever thought,

Written

In the stain upon the wall

Where paper peels away

Layer upon layer.

Yesterday’s news peeping out

From between the folds

In a torn universe

It is old, too old

To be of any use

But I read it anyway

The boldness of its type

The familiarity

Of its pronouncements

Offering nothing new.

As true today as it was then

Old news is no news.

The emptiness

In each phrase

Follows me through the day

Dreaming of a new start

A warm heart

The where-with-all

To pick up an axe

And break the ice.