madeleinec0

Riches of generosity
Grew stale in the wraith of spite
Iron bars now chafe my scalp
Unchain me from dependency

Warm and humid gold evenings
Spun to char in the breeze
Your bitterness clenching my fist

I went to the lake alone
Hypnotizing winds of turns
Led me here
Bony feet screaming now
In premature raw waters

I wanted space but maybe less of it
Maybe less of it from myself
The world here is all double-sided

Golden sweet cookies
And soft white bread
We smiled and skipped when the sun came
Drenched ourselves laughing in the rain
With rainboots as our small rubber boats
Tromping through pools and mysterious moats

To a newcomer, the city was a bursting beam of opportunity, a spike of life in a climate so bare, a colorfully enticing knit cloth in a dark room. 

The feeling of new is sickeningly addictive. From a young age, we quickly discover that new stuff makes us "happy." New toys or foods or places or clothes, bring us so much excitement and temporary joy, that for a moment we forget all other worries.

Skeletons of trees
Cracking against paper skies
As wind irks frail bones