Sad Poetry: Inflation

 the winter undresses. in a terminal consent.

we are spent by time.

fragile tyrants in masks made of skin. 

touch is studious. a servant of lesser gods. 

the moment crumbles.

as empty as we are confident.

the choice is obvious. to everyone, but us. 

we slips out of our faces.

defeated and forlorn clowns. 

owning nothing except what is gone. 

measuring ourselves against the deepest bruises.