Untitled

The rain won’t stop
it’s good for the land
I know
not so good, for the inner landscape

a kind of soddenness
deepening
the glass fogs over,
darkens
too much looking at myself

“Melancholy:”
that weird Victorian word
it runs in the family
like a cable passed down
full of faulty wiring
was there a chance to say “no thanks”

I write songs in my head
songs without music
poetry
as I feed my son
and note my mind’s irrelevance

I exist for now,
as flesh and sustenance
my thoughts, superfluous
my body more his,
than mine

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vixenvision

South Arm, Australia

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