I’m so ashamed.
But not of me.
Only of the silent sleep,
and trash task.
Days of promise,
now days of dust.
The reason, a room.
Full of yours, and yours.
And powdered profiteers,
dancing in the dark.
To the sounds of silence.
A warm afternoon
I’m so ashamed.
But not of me.
Only of the silent sleep,
and trash task.
Days of promise,
now days of dust.
The reason, a room.
Full of yours, and yours.
And powdered profiteers,
dancing in the dark.
To the sounds of silence.
A Wandering Poet 