Tuesday, December 13, 2011

the game - a poem

it is a game we play,
my beloved and i,
just when the air is coldest,
we snatch the cover from the other
the victorious sleeps in warmth
the vanquished in the chill of night
the cold one always pines away
'let me in' seeking the warmth
of body and cover,
and as wicked as we are
we deny the other such comfort
but when morning comes
the victorious prepares the breakfast
and covers the vanquished in blankets
a small reversal of warmth and chill
like the warm air frosts on the window sill.

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