My mind is a blank,
it has been wiped very clean,
by job stress and crap.
A little remains,
enough for a few Haiku,
a line at a time.
The season is cold,
the weather’s variable,
cold and very cold.
I win and I loose,
the spin of the wheel’s a thrill,
that I can resist.
The thoughts flood my mind,
like cold porridge or treacle,
moving slowing through.
Porridge and treacle,
now that’s a mix for thinking,
but not if it’s cold.
