cut straight down, meat on bones
'how hard is it,
really,
how hard is it being alone?'
but. you don't go near far enough,
sitting still,
there,
in the violent and tender collections of clouds.
I don't think you
even realise
how much you don't know,
how hard
it must be;
at least three-quarters of that old life inside of me,
all knives from the chasms of mind,
the darkness of winter mines,
go-on, it'll all be fine.
it'll be fine.