At three in the afternoon in mid
Autumn the light is nostalgic,
It is honey that pours into my jar to
Preserve me.
Malformed as I am, I will be
A perfect specimen of my peculiar and
Time-specific condition.
The setting sun opens up old wounds
Like scurvy,
And sets you firmly in a rocking chair
To reminisce.
You grow old with the day,
And the two of you mumble
Back and forth
About the bed time stories
The moon read you only yesterday evening.
Weary sister of the sky,
I put one foot in front of the other and
Dwell on the futility of positive thinking.