Tired, Can’t Sleep, Want Drink, Need Hug

That sadness of the spirit—
the clock marches a soldierly horror show
and brown is desert wrapped with low.
Chain-gang of weariness and blues,
everyone gets this way sometimes.

Two dead crows on the lawn today
an old apple core untouched,
the buzzing sound of anyone’s
small plane and no one knows
why anything happens.

Mostly just an ordinary summer
but music is missing and clouds keep
the sun from burning a hole in the sky.
Bitter on the lips, smile rhymes
with hypocrite.

The kindness of touch,
burn of a shot of gold.
Eyes that stare into the night,
too hot to sleep, too lonely
to make love how long…

how long.

Advertisements