Never have I quite tasted
The bitter drink of regret
The way it burns your eyes
Before it even reaches your lips.

It is a drink for the forlorn
solitary, colourless fool.
One that slowly sips her poison
Upon her broken, jagged stool.

Her heaving tears of sorrow
break the silence with their chime.
Their steady ripples upon the drink
keep a trickling sense of time.

The brief relief of broken sleep
A gentle blow upon the burn
…exhale…
A quiet moment before the return.

There is nothing quite as hopeless
Than fingers attempting to wind
A clock who’s arrows only point
Away from your distant mind.