Waning Cynical - Poem by Diane Hine
Saturdays at the patisserie,
I sometimes burn my arms, wrists or hands,
balancing hot pie trays and dodging chefs.
New scars overlie old, pink on brown on white.
I'm middle-aged Icarus with singed bat-wings,
in the slow burn of everyday life.
I plan on drowning in dementia,
I enjoy a good melodrama.
Comments about Waning Cynical by Diane Hine
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You