Disappointment

There was a time when

All I held between these two hands

Was soft

 

Did life change or

my hands

 

Now all I touch

crumbles like ashes of a once living thing

 

Are we worms,

turning, consuming, changing the world

back to food for some other life,

hiding from the light,

playing our part in the

cycle.

 

Am I like those two eyes,

bitter, longing,

turning you to stone.

 

Am I like the sour boiling,

fermenting which could

in one way become your

intoxication or your sustenance,

and in another

rotting and filling you with

a smell ripe yet close to death.

31poems, poetryMegan Jones