There is a weight in shadows.
He sits beneath buzzing blue lights,
hands trembling like tired tectonic plates.
His sighs cradle the shape of silence,
turn air into something palpable, heavy.
"We run on empty, don't we all?"
His voice spreads, vacant as winter fog.
Every word falls like unlit streetlamps,
grey pools where brightness used to bloom.
"I forgot the taste of mornings," he says.
Forgot warm sunrises kissed by coffee steam.
Now it's this: boiled water, no revolution.
Grains that pretend to be mountains.
Once, his laughter shook the room open.
Now, it is ashes scattered in wind.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 22nd, 2025 04:23
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments2
I get the sense of aging disillusion and crumbling youthful idealism in this poem. It speaks with the resignation of experience and its shadows fall heavy. Very nicely imaged and worded.
It's about switching to Decaf
Great write
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