Harpies
Ever changing, but never changing
Constantly rearranging
Old photographs of friends lost at sea.
Waking in cold sweats
With heart pounding; Blood racing
Losing sense of self
While looking into the eyes of myself.
Winter comes & goes like ghosts from my past
When will I be rid of these harpies
Always attacking my psyche?
Am I vain to believe in familiarity
Or is it sanity, men call brevity?
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