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