MY MUSIC
Poems
Monday, 26 December 2011

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A skelf pierces my brittle skin as we sit
cross-legged on the corroded floorboards.
The touch is not too tender; a feeling of numb,
perhaps because I'm just not really there?
Your callow eyes have never looked so bright; 
they illuminate only all the wonders of the world.
I want to absorb myself in such purity, 
be whole with you and the unripe earth.

Spilled Bourbon gives a shine to the sullied walls,
almost painting the story of which we've just created; 
of belly aches and stained cheeks, of weakness and of loss.
Who'd have known our fragmented tales
could almost be duplicates?

Midnight's the most delicate of times, 
where even the devil can raise his hand for a glass of water.
A lullaby setting that's pure in form and angelic in nature;
we are the fiction that we chew.

Must we starve on crumbs from long ago,
to break our sorry past? 
Must we use our fears to guide us,
like a sculptor uses hands?
Must we swim to the end of the ocean,
just to see if there's any hope of another existence?

As the last drops of whiskey slide down my chin, 
I raise a toast to all who are lost,
and I hope, one day, we'll win.