is an arid tongue,
hope, far flung,
it’s not going to come.
It’s the beating of a skin-torn drum,
hearing the murmur of your hearts hum,
for odes that wont ever be sung,
you know, you just have to succumb.
Be content without, with only, some,
putting your hand in the same hole,
knowing you’re going to be stung,
leaving surety, to the whims of the young.
Don’t despair they say,
but I’m choking on impatient lungs,
it’s no wonder people end it early,
when anticipation feels like,
waiting to become undone.