POETRY OF AN OLD SOUL

This is poetry, 

chained to some bars of ash.

While the waves on the sea, 

break on the shore in a stunned silence. 

I would lie to you if I told you that I am happy, 

but it has been raining for a long time in my window. 

I am in a waiting room, called life. 

Where there is only one exit door. called death.

My lungs rot with every inhalation I take on my cigarette. 

My soul grows old while I write this. 

It is the poetry of an old soul. 

- Margo.