Cold-Blooded Chiller.

Woven, worn and shredded at the seams;
there becomes a gaping hole that let's only cold wind in.
Stitch it back together, patch it over, sew it shut.
The more wear the more tear.
Eventually there's not one shred of existence of an original strand.
It's all patchwork, the same pattern;
inflicted on a once new sweater;
A sweater that once kept you warm.
The same wise words of weeping poets are forever told.
The same beginnings. The same ends.

Repeated twists and familiar bends.

Caging each other within emotions will never grow old.

The handle lifts and the bars bend.

The balance shifts and the game ends.

Sun shines warm on bare skin and hands are held once again.

The weather was never cold to begin, only hearts open to the wind.