i talk
to the 4 stars of the southern cross outside my window
& the moon when it hangs low
to the wind when it sweeps up the tears on my cheeks
& the rain that falls for days and weeks
i talk
to the silence in the belly of shadows
& dead crabs washed up on shores
to the walls when they stand stoic and tall
as i heave out my anger and crumble and fall
i talk to the dead,
the unliving, the unfeeling
& you ask me why
as if I'm insane
but sometimes, they listen harder
& understand more
than the excuses of life
that humans are supposed to be
― s.m.
YOU ARE READING
Acedia
Poetry[ A c e d i a : ennui ; state of torpor or listlessness ; spiritual apathy ] Poetry attempts / Random thoughts / Musings (P.S. I'm not very good at this, don't expect too much. Thanks)
