Near a folded newspaper.

somebody talks in the other room

about what, I cannot say

maybe some revolution

I am turning colder

my legs close to each other

my hands folded

I look up towards the source

of all this untimely chill

outside, a green river flows

washing off man’s dirty footprints

late noon, the chill fills my room

I cannot sit in comfort

for lack of choice, I have to.

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Published by grumpygorman

I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...

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