I am by no means happy.
Thorn born and ludicrous all my joy.
what is sweet is salt
and what is salt is sleep.
And what is Sleep but an anvil
to believe in.
I hammer loss. ***** at the throat
of a forgotten opera.
all days are the end
as all my honey blacks
where the white theme of a blue world
bleaks the withering
of my constant debacle.
I come from a hell in myself
but choose to linger among you
like a mockery of the same.
Too many stars
and too little light
to conjure them.
broke where it counts.
slumming in the forge
of my misery
as all unbearable love
defies the answer
to a quiet
numb.