Poem: Softly lost

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,

my 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.

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