Insulation

When I wake, there are tears on my face

From condensation

From the ice that pricks my skin

and paints my eyelashes as I sleep.

Unfolding like the undead

I rise, creaking upright.

My joints are consumed by layers and yet

my bones are still frozen.

Warm tendrils are not available

to sweep away the rigormortis of sleep.

Instead, the floor feels like Lego,

and the cold spreads into my teeth.

Add another layer,

wrench on cardboard socks.

For the sake of “mental health”

I am told to open my curtains.

No sunlight penetrates the grey clouds

(a prison),

A reminder of

gOoD oLd EnGlAnD

and its bloody winter weather.

One, two, three, four, five

winter medicines all downed,

Accompanied by an ice cube;

The glass on my desk has no purpose when the water becomes a solid overnight.

A 'blanket of snow' does not compare

to the overwhelming, enveloping, smothering

freezing

sensation of that room.

The den of comfort is turned to ice.

The ghosts in this house are warmer than the tenants.

Perhaps I should join them.

"Perhaps I should get double glazing."