Black Cloud
June 5 2022
Cold feet, warm heart, they say.
As if bodily function
was a zero sum game.
As if every flaw
had its consolation.
As if all heat was the same;
temperature and temperament
ardour and anger.
As if the cold pale fish
I reluctantly offer
when a hand reaches out to be shaken
requires no apology;
because deep down inside
a fire burns
with love of man
and generosity.
On even hot summer days,
hands in my pockets
thick wool socks.
And then days like this,
when I feel the ice
seep through my veins
and clutch at my heart.
Disillusion and grief
and a smouldering rage
I cannot contain
have drained the warmth
completely out.
A black cloud
hovers over me.
Cold hands and feet.
A heart of stone
that barely beats.
I have Reynaud's Syndrome: cold hands and feet. I was sitting thinking how cold my feet were, and the old expression came to mind. I decided to just riff on it and see where it went. A rather dark place, apparently. Maybe less time with the newspaper would be a good idea!
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