The waking hours are salt packed
Dried out and conserved
Bittersweet like tears
That won't run for the reserved
The nights drawn out and endless
A charcoal riven streak
Colours your brain like black lung
Rigidly antique
The cycles becoming spirals
Dragging you despairingly down
You've been peddled an event horizon
An ill-fitting black hole gown
No comments:
Post a Comment