80.

I’ve delusions of grandeur, visions of more
and yet it’s temporary, of course, come winter
I’ll be the same: desperately nothing
letting the rain freeze my bones

For who even am I?
Without burnt skin and warm toes
Who will I become, again
when the rain comes; when the sun goes

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “80.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s