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?
5 comments:
Surprising that I should read it today of all days. I can't go into much detail about that here, but just wanted to let you know that you're captured the essence of losing someone and yourself in the process very delicately but brilliantly.
Exquisitely beautiful
in the utter void,you find yourself.
not even that...really...
The streets are streets
And where am I... Where?
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