he’s in my bed, but he is as cold as the winter wind whooshing on the patio
quieter than the snow that falls in pivots and covers the holes that he dug when he went insane.
he’s in my mind, but he is as dead as an old gold mine
his valuables were torn from under his feet, now his hands are like frozen blocks of ice.
he’s in my bed, in a clump, in a frenzy from the casualties of last night
and i’m scared if he awakes cause his mind is someplace else
somewhere dark
somewhere he doesn’t let my toes tread
somewhere he’s hiding his vilest mistakes
encased in the old gold jar
but
he’s
just
lying
on
my
bed.
it’s the start to a new day