Withered And Sere

It's the end of August and the earth is skin and bones. The air is on fire, the leaves have given up the ghost.

The feeling of lost time overwhelms me. I am lonely and heartsick and worn. I'm a moth in a lampshade, ragged wings burning.

Oh, but I shouldn't complain, it could be worse, so much worse, it's just being stretched thin in the heat, is all. The late summer blues.

I tell myself the loneliness doesn't matter, it's just my nature, and anyway how much of myself do I really need? No, no, it doesn't matter.

If I say it enough, perhaps one day it will be true.