This morning I woke up with a chill at 6:43am, the covers dumped in a colossal blue heap on the floor, and a slight headache: the victim of an all too vigorous dream, I suspect. Whether it was a bad dream, or a good one, I cannot say, since I am terrible at interpreting symbols.
It did leave me with an idea for a poem though. So, I suppose, I should be grateful to Heaven for that...
The Thief
On nights like these—
So dark, so cold—
Are fires lit
And stories told,
While in my bed
My lover sleeps.
And I wake up
With icy feet.
A cough, a twitch,
Then all is still;
And one is left
To contend with a chill:
To wonder if
Humanity,
As cold as he,
Might turn to steal
My comforter
To make itself
More comfortable.
It’s possible.
