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In my bag
In my bag,
Thirty years
Dispersed
Over depressed tears
And a gloomy tale’s slag,
Among these, fickles
Our history,
And a bitter taste trickles,
Deep in my bag;
Our story,
On drafts, lines of poetry,
With smell of burnt success,
And sound, of never mind, kiss
And echoes of something else,
Your broken barrette,
Half of my last cigarette,
Witnessing my dead habit,
With your funny picture,
Pretending to be richer,
Ashen white and black,
With smiles hidden deep
In the dark;
In shades, ready to weep.
Seething with silent passion,
In a bag of an old fashion,
Smothered in tight heaven,
Soothed themselves in haven
In the depth,
Without a breath,
I keep blessing before death.
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