I realized the other day
That poetry has become
How I color in the gray
How I scrape up the ****
And salvage it

At times I think it’s nonsense
Stanzas of here and there
Of love and its expense
A sad whispered prayer
To someone, to no one

But looking back
To how I wrote then
And how I crack
Like leaky pottery when
I write now

I understand
Who I was then
& How unplanned
time and time again
I find myself alone