Etched in Your Bones
I have no discord with time.
Not like you.
Gasping for breath.
You’re suffocating in images of
your life running dry,
I found my enrichments in
firmaments of Nature’s promise.
You’re consumed with swindling
your own mortality.
Gasping for breath.
Self-persecuted by the density of
fear etched in your bones,
but spring never arrived—we
could have met then.
Instead, you’re gasping
for breath.
