It seems to indicate it's morning
The lunch reminds me it's noon
And then tea time arrives, Earl Grey
In an olfactory aspiration of Bergamot
I find none, neither taste
It's water
Hot yes, hot water pretty much
The nicotine hits no high
And then I remember the call to dinner
I hate dinner times, now more than ever
It's an end of the day, of another lament
Towards insomnia, forward unto
Into sheepish, sleepless, emptiness
Only to rinse and repeat another cycle
To breathing the fungus of your parting
Choking my lungs, filling it to woe
The winter is frozen with my sighs
As my heart chills the wind in every exhale.
No comments:
Post a Comment