another stumbling block:
this one still called i,
this one,
stuck in this season's still belief.
one that
 if any further summer
would be seen from
previous years, would
back streets still hang
dense in these heavy
melancholias? how
could i have bred this notion?

how could this shirt
pocket hold
such small demise for this week, right
beside the place you,
with uncertainty,
may someday call home?

the lights flare, i
curl up again.

on arrival

a doer of nothing,
a bucket of sorrow,
I've abandoned today 
and discarded tomorrow

it's a desolate day,
a melancholias month,
i finally decided that
I've had quite enough.