Desolation

The air is wet-grey
And like it
I am free of colour
What distinguishes man from thing
In and out, down and up
Or you and me
Is one sea washed of relativity.

Time, space, place waver
As I flow through walls
Wet-souled
In this flux without fire,
Poured out
And resigned to this intermittent chill.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.