Losing Hope Poem by RIC BASTASA

the pulp of my past
decays in the lines of my palm

and if my mouth shuts up
because of somethings unswallowable
such as bitterness and unbearable sourness

i then think of you

nights of unease
as frequent as the rain of december
and because of coldness and feelings of
wet rags and moldy shoes on the rack

because of all these
and in a few steps towards a line of bushes
a few glances of clouds and horizons

my hopes are lost as clumsily and
irreparably as
a stone rippling its way to the sea