Frost on the ground,
Condensation on the window.
Maybe something brittle
broke along the way;
I’ve learned there’s no such thing
As a perfect triangle
And now there doesn’t seem
That much to say.
Between seasons,
Colours indistinct,
Painted life in shades
Not quite of grey,
No stone to be cast
Between guilt and innocence,
And now there doesn’t seem
That much to say.
Water on the glass
Makes it hard to see.
From outside comes
An old dog’s tired bark.
None of this
Is near being true.
No young or old, only new.
The sky is shining dark.
