It is afternoon at 4 am,
When faceless kids are laughing at the sky.
What are you and what I am?
Time flies and we don’t know why.
Naked thoughts and dimmer light.
Senseless vile comes through touch.
It is a bare bone feverish delight
Not to think about it too much.
Stumbled in a speech I didn’t give.
Tumult has me storm across the scene.
Life is silly little wounds with no relief.
Running for my life from the obscene.
Saying yes to every terrible mistake.
Locked in a vicious sprint of fate.
How many should it really take?
You only see them when it is too late.
AM
© Copyright: Григорий Вяземский, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123010107068
Свидетельство о публикации №123010107068
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