Ruins

the shy colors of a dried plant by my window
withering away with the changing seasons
swaying in a blow of breeze nevertheless
while being perfectly dead, an art in itself
the iron rust around corners of the sill and
a high-pitched stutter of machine from outside
the cawing of crows in my neighborhood and
a broken mailbox standing alone but almost alive
still didn’t make for a situation more hideous
than mine on a friday afternoon singing along
to a tune of typical ache familiar to downing a shot
coincidentally enough, a shot or 5 were included too
with a top up of exactly five beers for breakfast
rather than my steaming hot cup of brew
appareling stopped making sense a week back
dwelling in the same comforting coal black
it was either the beauty sleep or solitary indulgence
and nothing quite in between
the existence of my ruins was speaking volume
in languages i hadn’t learned
screaming to be discarded by peeling layers off my skin
puking the old feelings out to consume healthy again
gagging on the tastelessness of past tales like a sin
what had become of me?
when did i go so down the hill?
to only ever feel remnants of yesteryears
nagging on me, biting on my brains and
in no way feeding my present
but boy does it feel like home
when the old habits die hard
either out of love or sheer resentment

4 thoughts on “Ruins

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