Street Spirit

This sense phantom

Past tense

Is crippling



Thin joints and lithe

Body weight loose and willing

In the crook of my arm

Her light and zephyrous

Earthen scent as well



I carefully piece together

The sensations like conjecture

Of an artist before painting

But has lost his

Medium and thus cannot



The world will end, thank goodness

And this memory, supposition and sadness

Stilled and buried finally to be

Scorched and frozen in

The death of a star


If only I didn’t already know

© 2011 Yorgo Douramacos