i can taste the lasting linger
of my final pennies worth
and i can feel the blank desire
my tastebuds spin inside my head
there is morning dew on dangling leaves
and beads of that,
hang on webs of busy widows.
the grass is green but, not for long
and the pinkest flowers are in full bloom;
but only until their pedals fall.
there is an evening light
reserved for days like this,
held and used to mark the end of
more than just a day.
there is a seasoned silence,
we hold in high regard,
but i can't stand or sit
with what that silence is