By Joseph Armstead

Breathe in, breathe out…

You can smell it in the air,
That scent of rain and regret,
The perfume of bittersweet
And old dreams vaguely
It imbues a strange feeling
In the soul, a stirring
Of melancholy for
Things that can never be,
And it creates its own
Moonlight, transforming
The harsh metallic silver
from the gloomy evening
sky to the color of
gun-metal when you stare
down the barrel.

It’s there, that feeling,
That smell, that sound,
That music without

It stays with you long past its time.

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