The ride home abstract as history
Leaves me wanting more than your touch.
The cold chills my bones
Then I remember that summer hasn’t come in three years.
Three years almost thrown away,
But caught by your kid brother along the way down.
When might the skies turn vibrant with those colors again?
When might this civil battle cease?
I see it from time to time,
Climbing over the damp grey walls of my life.
The quick glimpse is scolded,
And with a bite as hard as a crocodile, I crawl back to you.