i'm drifting. swept away in a cold current.
further and further away from heat and solace.
and my soul eases at the memory and the ghost of warmth.
i'm in poverty.
my mind's been ransacked. someone's entered it, jiggled everything about.
broken my glass bottles of spirit. cracked and burned my talent. they've stolen the only bits of sunshine i had left; i kept them in small pearls.
my tears have been cut off with a dull knife.
so there's blockage in my veins. my ears are drowning in them.
i'm cold.
the soft breeze of life inside of me is a lonely blue wisp now. sometimes it's a pitiful whisper and sometimes it forms a wormhole in my chest... and sometimes it just sits there. freezing and grey.
i'm in poverty. i'm dirt poor.
someone's ransacked my mind.
they've left a hollow empty mess in their wake and in the middle of it i cry, exhausted after rummaging around, trying to find something to salvage.
anything.
i've looked for weeks. for months.
now i'm waiting for them to be returned. because i'm poor, i can't seem to find any place for more.
