Poem: Cold Wars

Cold Wars, a poem

Morning.
A tickle in my throat
announces the vanguard of
hostile invasion.
My own personal Star Wars
system has been breached.

Midday.
The enemy has captured
and occupied my sinuses.
My eyebrows feel huge;
overhanging ledges above
my receding eyes.

Evening.
Half my head is the unwilling
host to swaggering aliens.
Their sharp swords stab me.
They shove my thoughts
with rough chainmailed elbows.

Night.
My nose becomes the frontline;
assaulted, red and sore.
Then, somewhere near dawn,
it happens:
The enemy flees and, leaving,
is captured by an army of
paper tissues.
Supersoft, with soothing camomile.

I breathe again.