To Speak of Perdita

The seasons stopped being seasons
just before her story ended.
But now, the present circumstance
makes my memory of her stale.

And the winter never comes,
nor the Spring, the Summer, or the Fall
in her stead.

The weather never changes,
and there’s no rain to wet the asphalt
beneath my bare and blistered feet.

And I have no roof to settle under,
nor a pillow, nor a chair,
to put my guilty conscience at rest.

All I have is ceaseless motion
without sleep,

“cause sleep is the cousin of death”.