---

A doorway, enters,
through me. Where,
Your exit..
..is marked,
‘Yours truly,
Ours falesly’.
As, the cause,
like, Your hair: greys.
Time — seasons.
Each follicle, for me,
with; bitter pepper
and stung salty.
Rendering,
black and white;
the fool in me.
Whilst memories,
pile up,
like, a plated myriad,
begs for..
..clean slates..
..to just forget it.
There, really, was,
only,
absence in..
..the notion of..
..yesterday’s
paternal love potion.
Before I crawled.
Packed
were your bags.
As, I,
packed bags..
..under my eyes;
of melancholia sad-
ness. Until they’re
filled to burst.
Into — supernovic oceans.

© poormansdreams

---

---