Poem Vent.

Seldom grown winters, dreary in weather.
The weight on my shoulders, an unwarranted tether.
The weight of this month, of joy and pride,
in which its weeks i have always cried.
Seldom spoken out loud, as cold as leather
I can do naught but wait for the tide.
False sentiment, coated with lies,
Leading to suddenly cut ties.
A coward beneath the skies
I lay prone to the wicked eyes.
Nothing can save me from the depths
At which i have concealed myself.
Journey, and see how futile dreams surface.

• Published June 01, 2021, 18:37
• in The Swamp
• in Poetrie
• is not continuable by others
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