I don’t even know what demons
your drowning in your drinking,
but it’s left me alone and thinking
with such tragic sinking feelings,
that I’m concealing from the world
in my own bottles swirled with ink.
The weather for tomorrow is a
steady cast of showers that they
say will birth the flowers in my
heart, but I forecast an overcast of
grey and cloudy pencil shavings
shading the sky from light to dark.
The fear I find in freedom it follows
feverishly in my dreams, and
delicately woven it seams as if a
monster were screaming talk to me
talk to me, and in a way it seems
that if we spoke for just a moment
our severed searching souls might
sleep soundly and serene.