Les plus lus ▸
Regurgitation
All this talk of love, love lost
Joys and sorrows -
Of inexplicable thoughts
Of death; worse, fear of death –
Its fine for a solitary afternoon
Or a late night when you have
The freedom to brood…
All you have to do is to regurgitate
The stale memories.
Though the utter pointlessness of the exercise
Hits one like a blast of cold air
And one shudders as the blizzard
Of loneliness shrouds the self.