A Peasant

I was the peasant of suburbia.

A micro mite of the world

Walking amongst the lonesome clouds

Painting my fantasies on invisible walls.

A chronic smoker with a broken body;

My insides were for all to see.

Tracing my years around my heart

One could see my dissolving future.

With these shaky hands and empty irises

I saw more in the dark than in the sun.

I was the man on the moon next to God

But no one could feel my presence.

Too tired to explain how

This life has grown so old.

But to young and tainted

For it to die.

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