An eclectic summer of lust and boredom
Sounds good to me now in this winter of
slow-developing truths.
Making way for the snowfall, I plant myself like a
rigid peapod before the fire
And correlate the odds of ever sprouting through
the silence and the dark.
The lone song I know has turned brittle my bones
And my eyes have gone hollow from the singing of
it.
I remember well, all too well, my childhood’s
melody,
How lust was freedom goading me on
And boredom the sun-warmed grass’ soft embrace.
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