The Cold creeps what model trains and sugar plumbs should keep children asleep at 4:57am.
Snuggle-warm fires are none existent in the Antarctic weather; snuggle-warm blazes are too lazy inherently to reach all of the children of the earth; snuggling and cuddling are sometimes too few and far between on holidays for most.
The iPhone iridescence, which is the nightlight of the majority, now the pocket watch of those who have high ability, is the escape-terminal A that connects us to terminal Being and Beyond. We wish that iPhones had an app for everything. I wish my phone had a personal heater App for the cold to be gone.
Is it the heat or is it my heart that is too long gone?
Several emblazoned skills of saffron and the silk of milk and honey memories lit the way before. Now dark and dismembered I remember a time when the warmth was pure and not artificial, plugged-in space heaters of the soul.
The house heater was not broken. And all of me was covered in warmth, separate from the thermostat I could gauge even without numbers on the dial. It was instinct, it was through time, we were instinct, we were on trial with life, both tribulations and strife, I was content, but you were in contention. I dismembered you from my life.
Cold, dreary, dank, dark and weary. The cold air became the comfort, so the common cold welled at the back of my throat waiting for a chance to emerge, I caught you red handed, your blood was cold. Questioning was beyond what one sole space heater could do to fill a mansion with warmth.
Today, I became a ghost. Of course, at 5am under a blanket to the bathroom, I became my own American Horror Story in my trip to go pee. The cold to my feet have become the lock and key to waking me, shaking me awake, taking me drunk to sober, making me realize that I need to personally pay someone to walk beside me with a space heater. But then that would be cheating life. And where would they go when I needed to use the restroom?
So the only cuddling that would ensue, and the only spooning that has been done lately, is with me and my space heater, which is probably going to break sometime soon. It has been running non-stop from morning to afternoon and night mostly, when I become a blanket ghost to ward off the cold mostly. It is the one thing that enamors me lately,
My mother bought it secondhand from a silent movie star It was out of tune but still I learned to play And with each note we both would smile forgetting who we are And all the pain would simply fly away
Something secondhand and broken still can make a pretty sound Even if it doesn’t have a place to live Oh, the words were left unspoken when my momma came around But that Secondhand White Baby Grand still had something beautiful to give
Through missing keys and broken strings the music was our own Until the day we said our last goodbyes The baby grand was sent away, a child all alone, to pray somebody else would realize That something secondhand and broken still can make a pretty sound Even if it doesn’t have a place to live Oh. the words are still unspoken now that momma’s not around But that Secondhand White Baby Grand still has something beautiful to give
For many years the music had to roam
Until we found a way to find a home.
So now I wake up every day and see her standing there.
Just waiting for a partner to compose
And I wish my mother still could hear
That sound beyond compare
I’ll play her song till everybody knows.
That something secondhand and broken still can make a pretty sound Don’t we all deserve a family room to live Oh. the words can’t stay unspoken until everyone has found That Secondhand White Baby Grand that still has something beautiful to give.