when all the world's in darkness
its colours under blackness
and rustling leaves on branches
the only sounds around us

the warmth of day has faded
as sun for moon is traded
and fragrant blooms are scented
when gentle breeze ascendent

with heartbeats loudly pounding
our breathing synchronizing
your flesh on mine arousing
unite underneath the stars

I had coffee and a cigarette for breakfast
So yeah I'm doing fine
I've become good at taking weight off of other peoples shoulders
and
Searching for happiness in everything

Stale air, claustrophobe—
a terrible fit for a coffin,
this person—
he can languish here.

A good warmth, the kind
you feel after bourbon
deep in your chest, yes,
a very good warmth—
the kind you won’t find here.

Here, is where, as gentlemen say,
“the wicked rest”
as there is, indeed,
no such rest for men like that.

I am wicked, I suppose,
wicked in my own way, so
I deserve the test.
I will languish here.