Sleeping on the Balcony of December

To ache in the breath of tempest,

A haul to the cold space

That I was drifted to the crest

Of hope and pleasure in your place,

When the city is swept to ashes, to dust

And litters on the checkered streets;

But now these windows are wrapped in lust,

Could no longer rest on frosted sheets

During the lush downpour on the path of buried straw,

Fickle crops in the wings of harbour

Tangled upon the rising thaw;

Absence nullified in reappearing

Amidst the irregular tributary,

I sniff through the jaded leaves of beginning,

A difficult wish to quarry.

#Poetry