Fruit uneaten to the seed,
A glance at the heavens
Halting inescapable rot,
Here it lays brown and withered.

A chronic flicker of a lamp
In the corner of the room
A temperament that festers
Frustrated at the change of endeavours,

Waning moons missing pieces,
Resentful, longing for the sun
Indescribable hunger for a glimmer
over torrential nights,

Yearning like a fire
Begs to be fed
Reaching out to darkness
The bed, now half slept.

Restlessness crawls within bones
A tormenting
Unrelenting
Wind in the cold,

A soft low hum within the safety of four
Walls,
An unrecognisable sound
Without an ear, joyful to be here at all.

Fruit will soon bitter with frosty mornings,
Unnurtured,
I plant myself in grounds
Sullen with the season.