This cold landscape bellows,
Blowing endlessly
With a high pitched wallow
And I am not a voice in it.
No animated gust of white dust,
No longing wave of seed heads bobbing,
No tall tree, naked and exposed
Arms wide open
Awaiting for the sun.
This cold landscape bellows,
And I sit in isolation
Completely enveloped
By a drawn sensation.
Dampness smouldering the fire
As snow melts to ice I sit upon,
And the red tinge of frozen willows
Keeps this glowing fire
I have not set.
Aches off the coast of your dying heart
Wallow in darkening corners of my eyes
My shifting conscience begs of you forgiveness
Sourly settling into this big-ol-comfy couch
Do not wallow in misery that follows choices
Gaining entrance into back rooms of smokey bars
Cold glasses and top shelf stuff
Free lap dances all night long
Revel in freedom’s advances
Hit the high notes like a 9 year old choir boy
Smoke the last cigarette until the last duck call doesn’t work
And then we shall reign victorious
For deep within the advances of your grieving heart
Rests a moth, fluttering it’s wings
Preparing for the coming months ahead
Where you too shall learn to fly like a butterfly
I remember
I hold
I used to sing late at night
I used to hold memories as if they could comfort me
Now
Now I keep telling myself
Whats been has been
No need to forget just move on
No need to wallow just move on
No need to listen just believe
The pieces that once were
Never were
The pieces that have hit the floor
Were never me