I hear my last words
lose themselves
hanging from the precipice
of a precise demise.
Looking for nectar,
I pick at thorns and scabs
you name your regrettable yesterdays
though I won’t find any syrup
In your horseradish skull.
Tuesday’s malaise will spread
across the week turning sour and heavy.
Summer to fall I thought I had it solved.
Fall to winter,
I know nothing at all.
12.13.14. Cem copyrighted
edited 6.15.16
