The sun is hung.
The day's at end.
Hello, night,
my only friend.

The page is black
with ink i've penned
all words unwind,
blend and distend

candle flickers
mind can mend
my body -wasted-
so to my spirits, tend.

some beauty made the moon

some beauty made the sea

that same beauty made you

but it didn't make me

i'd prayed for the Holy Ghost more times than most
engrossed in the idea religion was some signpost

...waiting for Mary's face on my own toast

i lost all hope when I saw the demon host
rising hellish from their infernal roast
i just wish someone had, to me, disclosed
that there's no such thing as ghosts

six o'clock, every morning
on its way since the dawn was yawning
meant for you as long as you pick it up
made for the spot beside your teacup

it is not new news that dreams do come true
only when the moon is as blue as the skies clear hue

but, i think, this month; maybe it is due

Day 4: Here is my heart

Day 1: I left my heart at the bar but you mistook it for finger food

Day 2: Nibbled and chewed, I gave you a gun to stop its thrashing
            but you shot at my feet and I danced to your beat

Day 3: broken and bruised I tried to leave but I was stuck on your leash
            part of my heart on my sleeve, the rest in your stomach
            you were the master of me. The master of puppets

Day 4: ready for a long awaited rest
            I've painted a target over my chest
            please, shoot straight
            you can keep what you ate

The well of my soul might be full
but the cogs by which I once drew forth water rusted long ago
I  twist, contort,
strain and force
but the rivers ran their course
and as much as I ***** my eye
I can never cry