Heat embrace my arthritic cold.
Not superficial survival breaths,
But eyes closed, my arrival breaths.
The words erode and rust,
My food, it turns to dust.
Waiting in the eaves, cue missed.
Tear induced paintings, unseen,
Unpolished poems and caffeine.
My heart, it feels alive,
Thoughts trapped within a hive.
No tunes to pulse and venerate,
Or vista to ocular generate.
Stop at the stroke of calm,
Sky-facing, pen falls from shallow palms?
(2019 COPYRIGHT) PEDRO Batpoet