All my problems are warm,
wet, and hollow
with oxygen exhaling
into disappearing mist,
as vapor from my blistered lips,
and I long for that extant moment
of an instance in existence
before dispersing into
cold, porous drips
like the chill of sweat
exalting from a fleshy mold.
I feel it's lustrous loss,
and I'm willing to be lost,
in the solution of the frost,
because all that warms me
wares me down to dust,
same as these vapors
ware the world to rust.
YOU ARE READING
Thresheld
PoetryMy life is a series of thresholds that I overcome through poetry. Love, loss, pain, regret, humor, irony, word play, and even sarcasm are as much apart of my life as they are central to my poems here. I am Thresheld. UPDATE: It's been quite a few ye...
