I am transparent
as an opaque glass.
My mind still cloudy,
with words I amass.
Words of frustration,
not joyful to me,
but words dispicable,
is what I see.
I do not need this
at my point in life.
Enough, already,
she is still my wife.
Can you come the morrow,
at a quarter past three.
I'll be alone,
she's sitting next to me.
A Comment by Loy
Extremely good poems tonight. Thank you.
A Comment by MFish
Thank you