the pulp of my past
decays in the lines of my palm
and if my mouth shuts up
because of somethings unswallowable
such as bitterness and unbearable sourness
i then think of you
nights of unease
as frequent as the rain of december
and because of coldness and feelings of
wet rags and moldy shoes on the rack
because of all these
and in a few steps towards a line of bushes
a few glances of clouds and horizons
my hopes are lost as clumsily and
irreparably as
a stone rippling its way to the sea
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/losing-hope-4/
