Poem pieces

Ash Sunday

There are still ashes on the sweater I was wearing

the day that bridges started burning. 

Sometimes

Sometimes,

sometimes I howl instead of breathing

and it makes me wonder

what it is that I am so afraid of

these days that could be the reason

for the times I am not breathing

but screaming,

sometimes.

Wake up 

Rooms yellowing, partially lit

with evening as it seeps into leftover hours,

time stale by morning and

it's another spend ignoring

the tsunami, as it taps

its warning.