one more month
and what's changed?
more than
i'd
admit to,
i guess.
they've given me
a nice new uniform,
a rifle,
and a kevlar hat,
but under
all the camoflague
and drill
movements
i'm still there,
still me,
not very deep
down
at all.
so what's changed?
not so much,
i guess.
another month,
another temporary home,
another temporary
infatuation.
i'd like to dwell
on that,
for a moment;
white snow,
black pavement,
grey trees.
the sky
is layered with
permafrost
these days.
mid-January in quebec
starts sometime
in november,
and lasts forever
apparantly.
maybe that's why
i'm drawn to her.
her hair looks like
mead
on a warm summer
evening,
but she speaks like
navy rum;
sharp!
to the point,
and with a sudden burn.
she is wildfire;
an unending burn,
the type of warmth
that bites,
which is exactly
what you want
in this sort of
bastard
cold.
but
what is to come
of this?
nothing,
but a few
short words,
tucked away,
not to be read
by very many indeed.
because,
after all,
what's changed?
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
