February

It's not that much.
It's a layer, or rather, I hope it is.
It's the blanket which is still too cold,
Too thin, yet too heavy, too cumbersome,
Too pure and yet too dirty upon the
Indifferent, weary, ground.

It's the single-sided sleeping bag,
At a time where most are
In their beds, Or at least,
Attempting to be.
Darkness is now the norm, and the
Moon in the sunlight seems to be
Something of typical modernity,
As I wrap my coat of many colours-
-Many shades of off-white-
I am broken from the gaps in the
Pavement
Gaps in the roads, potholes
I fill with expectation and not release,
The creation of real obstacles and the
Not so real breeze, my home-made
Tornado lifts me up

And it brings me down so close
Away, back right down to the pre-paid
Sounds, the pre-frayed rounds of
Cotton kisses and sudden misses,
My aim made so effortless by the foundations
Of this flaking, settling comfort.

This is my seat, the unexpected under zero,
The near impossible frozen hero, this is my feat,
I walk as if I cannot feel throughout
The air which steams in fury whenever I open
My mouth, as if my heels set fire to what is real,
The jury of falling ice leads me back
I began here, yet I must end here,
But at this time it doesn't matter,
I don't need to jump on the glossy puddle,
To know that it will shatter,
The consequence is my only friend here,
And this muddle of my thoughts,
And what I could have sworn
Was the patter of
Mild rain and nothing more,
Has torn the shame away from my door,
I mourn the games I used to play before,
In what seemed like the snow, that's what I
Thought was it's name, I must have dreamed
That new start so long ago,
From where I came, and it's too late,
It's almost spring,
But this warmth,
It doesn't mean a thing.