Night-Wind Melancholy
Reality is cold.
Wait thats poetry
I mean cold is the
reality
Outside in a Indiana
winter moon,
Narcissist enjoying
my-day-old fatty
pain,
When Inspiration
hits you square in
the flesh.
Reality is, it’s
cold, exposed skin
it’s sting.
Eye’s burn dry from
fiery chill.
A Buddha second. Me
a week.
Noggin worried for
warmth.
Real time awakening
Reality is cold.
Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2012
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