Cold

How I softly struggle to deny each thought that comes my way
To pen it down, and immortalize my mental decay
There is little poise in the words I want to say
It’s just that in the cold, death serenades stronger than it did before
Of this city, with its cursed air and cursed roads
In all places to run to, this is where I end up, in the sobering cold

Nothing rhymes as well as it should
And no poignant idea emerges from the cacophony of my thoughts
I am trapped here, in the madness of my making
These walls built to keep the cold out, only keep me in
What is there to a quaint café, and cup of coffee that would help?
The warmth that spreads through lips never reaches the crevices of the heart

Have we not been here before? I swear I recognize the creak of the door
Everything is etched, right down to the most minute detail
The taste of your soft poison laden mouth
Of lies spoken with such charm and guile
It is this feeling that always overtakes
That if I want things to change enough, they will change

Yet nothing truly changes
I am cursed to live through these ages
And recognize each pattern as it emerges as it did before
Tell me truly do you feel things change at all?
Is everything not a parody of itself?
Have we not experienced this fervor before? Less cynical, more whole

Here lies your skeptic for the ages, who struggles to inhale the smoke and let it blow
And every word I write or say has been said better and before
In the tendrils of this broken philosophy where I make my home
I am as lost as the rice farmer some two hundred years before
Can’t you see nothing truly changed?
I revolved on an axis aplenty, but it’s still December, and I still decay

All I have is this incessant desire to touch a heart
To manufacture meaning of this desire to be not alone
But the wall cave in, and nothing of note comes to say
All things remain, bar a few raw nerves I touch here and there
I do wish it was not this way
For all the patterns recognized, I could see misery for what it is
For said out loud, this poetry imbibed hurt, not romance