October, the last Ritual
I watch the city come and go
through the tram’s dirty window.
October spreads across the old wheels,
making each station a little quieter.
I buy a loaf of bread
and hold it tight
as if it were the only
certainty
I still have today.
A man with flowers in his arms
crosses the street,
and the rain tears the petals from him
without asking anything.
I speak with myself
only in thought,
answer a weary stranger
with a strip of a smile.
October is different:
it lets you die a little
without losing yourself completely,
it holds your hand
even when no one is near.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
