First Letters

Out of the wind, the brown carpet is marked prosaic like petals swept away My snowdrops weltering in the winter not even dead heading can help their blind eye stalks I feel like a pebble roughened at the edges and Im gifting no one Mother nature has unearthed me My eyes remain shut I finger past the muddy morass I feel blazed over from the cityscape of lingering dreams Not even the recurring home joyous and warm feels my pockets I am a sunbaked bun