Breakfast

The long night was taken away,
By the sacred Sun's rise at East.
My stomach groans at new day,
This groan calling for a fine feast.

But I've only just woken and the air is cold,
My fingers were numb and my toes did shiver,
What peril could another few moments hold?
I thought as I held the blanket ever closer.

The air was far too cold, quilt could barely suffice.
I need the true magic to stop heat dying away,
My arm searched till memory made it realise,
No magic lay with me to help brace the day.

The memory cast a dark shadow on my mind,
As an icy breath left my lungs and my nose.
What feast could groaning stomach hope to find,
In the house where no magic nor angel ever goes?

Each second sent my heat to a deeper plummet,
The numbing fingers now a frostbitten burn.
Survival demands breakfast with an iron bullet.
Every day till to this house, heat and magic return.