"after 6 beers," says crazy george,
"she's not gonna be looking any better."

                      *       **

Oh, woman!
wounded spirit
of moonlight and broken glass

Oh, fiery night
Oh, heat
raging, dazzling light

the wild place
till the red morning light

till the red morning light

hold me tenderly
hold me with those gentle eyes

hold me in your arms
far from shadows
where the nightingale sings

till the red, morning,  light.

As you hit the keys on the piano
your hands dance with the rhythm
And retain a mystical aura
The alluring tunes of your music awaken the fire flies
As you play they glide
Creating a shimmering glow of aurora

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑘.
I know,
But does my sickness
Eat me from the inside?
Does it,
Define me?
...
Yes.
Very much.
What are you going to do about it?

The beast ambles,
Slowly
Against the face of the cold,
Encroaching
Winter.
He pauses,
milky eyes turned upwards,
two pools of white
in which a pale,
smoldering
sky can be seen, reflected
like narcissist unto photo behind glassy frame.
He turns back,
Away from the cold,
And the howling, ashen sky
Towards home,
And orchard of writhing, wild apple.
Inside, it is warm.
He will wait out the winter,
perched in patched armchair,
ambling the slender halls,
wearing thin the lacquer,
on what may have once been
Glossy,
Youthful,
timber floor -
Growing fat off the fruit of autumn.