prick

your eye a plant
my finger a splinter
a tiny pin prick
by this strange harsh winter
came quick
now strangely gone
now I go on
without the burden
of bad weather
kept me fecking
under fickle storms
that were wrecking
my plans they were ruining
shake these colds
I was catching
the dust of my tires
the smoke is my detaching
always we rise from such fires