Not even that… I am
Why should I write poetry?
Now thinking of some bleak longing
The world is bright maybe or is dark
Things tell stories of past or maybe just science
Somewhere sometime someone did it
I am not even that, much too tired
Maybe the sunrises and the yellow streetlights
Are not from another century
The trees are green maybe
And she beautiful
In my dreams I find nothing to tell her
My hands won’t even touch
The streets are streets
And where am I... Where?