Tis the early days of January.
I look hard through the hue of rustic leaves.
I search through the stacks of Wilde, Keats and Bukowski.
I narrowly avoid my o’er streaked phone
scarred to the remnants of a haunted past,
Encumbered with self-imposed exile
duelling nightly with the tv and lovelorn feelings.
In the early eve of the 1st January 2017
I stand to decide
a past softly glistening
to the bead of sweat descending from my brow
as I toss and turn dreaming of a meeting in a movie theatre watching a french film.
We both want to sleep with each other
reminisces of a future affair
a foreboding of the future impending.
Where my soul lingers none dare to look
none think to look.
The days may be long
but my soul is short.
Caught in a moral toil of encumbrance.
One girl cares little for me
she cares only for the power o’er presented to her by faux happiness.
I offer her nothing but our past.
What does she care, I sold that past
for all that is.
Now where I stare down the cold metallic barrel of the buyers gun.
Little did I know the impact of asking for a long invalid refund on a past gutted by the guttural tears of a bold mistake.
Hidden in the decayed hue of a long past September.
I find the doubt of death in amongst these pains
to be insufferable
an unanswerable inevitability.
Too young to find any solace in a still incomplete life.
I lean on a white painted door frame.
The mistakes of my past weigh down the intangible yearning for just more understanding and happiness.
Shortly sold and long broken.