Shelter from the biting winds, the ends, fondly frayed,
Snuggled in the threadbare fabric, tattered hearts as one.
My dulled, unravelling scarf with the edges all decayed
Wrapping me up warm in the chilling winter sun.
My sentimental scarf twisted gently round my neck,
Winds yanking lazily at each ungainly thread.
Patterns, once quite interlaced, now only tarnished fleck,
And what was burning crimson now a dusty, dull brick red.
The world will bring a withering on everything and one.
The biting winter snows and the breezes’ frozen blade.
And we will have the memories when all is said and done.
The threadbare scarves and tattered hearts, the ends, fondly frayed.