When one day snowflakes drifted, culprits of the spring,
early time was all through the afternoons shoulder,
sloped back into the bed that needed to be changed.
Bluesy covers in a time of greenery, peppered whiteness,
each flake flew in a maidens hair of bunches, unique
to the city bustling, it had its own good time.
Came from last nights twilight to settle then vanish,
new records play before the starting song, and so it was.
Crumbs became the villains within European silken beds,
shook once, shook twice, Fight Club of the breakfast scene.
Jutted out into the spaces in armies to remembered tastes,
toast was an indie band with the lead guitarist Burnt Slice.
Called upon the God of laziness and he was totally asleep,
in dreams, video scenes, outtakes for the mentally mindful.
April was wafting through the windows, but the chill cool,
feeling 4pm revisited. We drank it over in warm gulps of tea,
changed our sides under a newly spread bed,
fingered paperback corners till the light forgave.
