writing poetry

the light withdrawn
that year
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
there is no escape by the river
melancholy days have come
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
melancholy, blue it was
with lips blood red and heart of stone
there by the window in the old house
i love my life, but not too well
i despise my friends more than you