Cold

The hour creeps
Like ivy o’er the garden wall
The flower sleeps
I leave the light on in the hall
For pitch black
Amplifies the tick of the clock
And I lack
The resistance to turn the lock
To keep
The cold from creeping in
It seeps
Beneath my summer skin
To remind me
A lock can never bar
The door
To where a thousand memories are
And more
As they drift like phantom mist
Across my sea
With sweet and tortured kiss
They cover me

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Janet Martin