this is not home.

I pray for a time when I’m

going to die. Unfeasible

I’m sure. One can try.

My polymer sweatshirt is

warm through the dye.

My time on the moon for broken lies

is cut at the strings so it

can fly high.

University dreams of students

in mind. Broken but here

for those in sight.

In a wasteland of deer

and colours of fields.

No end nigh, one can only hope

for the happiness that may never come.

Though, it will try. Identity is questioned

in this mind of minds. But

through this loneliness and

forward lives,

you may cry at the sight

of my darkening eyes.

 

©Dawson Lehmann

2016

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About dawsoleh

poet. writer. student. hipster. cowboy. friend.
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