The vicious voice of winter is the pock-
marked strangler sneaking up behind
you in an alley filled with bums and winos,
when you are lonely on a Christmas night.
The tendons of his hands are ropes
and pulleys, breath that burns as cold as steel,
but when he wraps his silky fingers round
your neck his scent is sweet with want.
The voice of winter is a final overdose,
a card-game lost, it’s candle light reflected
in the soily snow from windows closed
when you are lonely on a Christmas night,
and when morning comes they close the body-
bags and leave you for even more alone.
Linked to Tuesday Platform for Pat at toads.
December 25, 2018