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.
