Sour painter winter,
I drown in your wilderness…
The crying moon with pain to tinker,
The sky to laugh at my dry emptiness…
The cold wind to seep,
Her memory’s all that’s left to keep…
Dreams all torn and bleak,
Sweet misery that lies beside to set me free…
Her finger that once laid feeble on this empty palm,
Now the walls shutter to the drug’s ripple,
Her eyes now beg for these pupils to disarm...
And her breath stings like wooden teeth fed to a waxed
nipple…
A violin played on an empty stage,
The musician cries to life’s tragedy…
Strings scream in defying rage,
Guns to kill agonized blasphemy…
I’m a personification of pain,
My eyes lie dead in a cage...
A pill to tickle an aggressive vein,
I’m a torn book with an empty page…
Hope lies dead in an empty grave,
A cigarette lit in a grey painted room…
Cobwebs to watch and crave,
A closed door sealed with a broom…
The needle stings pale to my skin,
A wound sterilized in rotted gin…
The roof painted in grey ink,
A sea of sorrow calls for me to finally sink…
