This one is also a few years old. Most of the poetry I post here isn’t current in fact. I like to let them sit for a couple of years before sharing, usually.
Taking from the back of the robe
my blue coat, for the first
cold night of autumn
I wonder if it will ever change
this sense of living in
someone else’s novel
badly written at that
The haunting feeling of unreality
as if I am a walking cliché
too improbable to be real.
What is the term for it?
The long words of the new science
trying to pin down the darkness
bring it closer, strip it of terror.
Who am I?
One day I will have to stop
asking myself this.
I will have to live while
there’s still time.