We Reach The End Of This Year
Seven degrees and it’s burning in me slowly,
Dreamy eyes rolling on the unseen,
To places and time, I had never been.
And a writer’s tool which is silent today,
Still sleeping between the frigid fingers,
Echoes no single words.
While the blank pages flutter by,
Thoughts desiccating and dying.
The sudden scars and the same feeling,
The tongue too stubborn to stick out,
The air tastes no good like the summer.
The summer was beautiful, I still remember,
We walked so far until we reach the end of this year.