Aged. A poem.

Cranky at the portents: The breeze, it smells of winter, Even though the summer Has settled in Like a squatter, rent-free, Taking advantage Of your misdemeanours. Have your eyes aged With the rest? Or are you seeing as you did Before the withered cheeks And dragging jowls, When everything was new And you were innocentContinue reading “Aged. A poem.”

Clockwork. A poem.

Causal expectations and experience will say that I will just gain nothing from this long and tedious day. My movement winding down, corroded, insecure, scattered springs, nuts and bolts and thoughts abound, unsure. Who’s to say my automation is better than before? Let cogs and gears grind on and on as I cogitate some more.Continue reading “Clockwork. A poem.”