| Poem |
 
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This Cold Winter's Day by Keith Kitchen
 (1 rating)
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I often dream about my youth,
about the bed I slept in,
The bed I slept in,
The bed I never slept in.
It was in my bedroom,
My bedroom,
The bedroom I never had.
It wasn't mine, but it was.
A ceiling that slanted downward
My bed in the crook against the wall,
The sun breaking through the fog
Revealing the flowers of a spring day.
A Spring day,
A day that didn't exist,
that couldn't exist.
It didn't happen.
I remember the feeling of euphoria,
Waking up to the perfect day,
The perfect day,
The perfect day I never had.
So clear the memory,
So vivid and sharp.
Would that it were,
Would that it were.
My withered skin with a yellow cast
laughs at me on this winter's morn.
Such a youth could never have lived,
Such a perfect day never occurred.
Sitting in this cursed chair
on this winter's morn,
This winter's morn,
This gray day that won't pass away.
I dream of my youth
and who I was,
Who I was,
Who I still am.
Tears trace the rivers of my face,
Rivers cut by decades of tears,
Of fears, of heartache and years,
I rock, I rock, I rock.
I wish I could run,
I wish I could ride,
I wish I could walk,
Trapped in this chair of age.
I dream of my youth,
of my lives,
of my wife,
of my life.
Today is all I have,
A pitiful shadow of what I was
What I am,
Who I am.
I wish for the warmth of Spring,
A ray of sunlight
The touch of sunight,
As darkness clouds my sight
On this day,
This cold day.
This cold, long day.
This cold, long, Winter's day.
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