and i am done for today,
the grey hopes, stoned and tied.
A torrential wave of numb waters,
i sit on the ground where a fly wilts,
sticking its head on the soil.
To be a morose winter, maybe.
And i resemble that.
My hands are not butter anymore,
they do not count stars,
they stink rather of filth/ bluish trepidation.
And I am done for the day, like that.