There is a coldness, a bitterness that grows with fervor
glancing back to younger days, days wild with unexpecting
with lips pulled back, bracing teeth for tomorrow, holding *****.
Grit, I have none. I fear a wrinkled future, not the body, dreams:
Like a plant that goes to waste for weekends left unwatered,
Like a mad purple bruise throbs at night, lest you forget (fool!)