Poetry Press

It is a cold day of June
Waiting with my platoon
How I wish a summer was coming soon
How I wish I did not demand so much from you

Yet I have and I do
And this you need know
Before all the world crumbles
and we’re the rubble below

I have seen the right love
In all the wrong faces
I’ve been waking up lost
In the furthest of places

Do you know of that grey,
How it flutters the mind?
Of that silvery snow.
That waits in the sky?

Isn’t it funny?
The subjection of time
Those years lost to moments
Dissolved into wine

I know of you in blurred pixilated pieces,
in eventual exchanges of theological thesis’

Whistles will blow
From the trains as they pass
To disturb your soft pedals
As they cling to the grass

The Gulkin Gazette