With noon’s grim call, I rise too late.
Condensed sunlight through greys and slate.

Awake with a steadfast hunger for sleep,
to push out these pains that so make me weep.

Each day is rushed to a ****** too soon,
like some alleyway lover, ‘neath the moon.

‘Neath the moon, I give into wine;
vessel over my wholesome Tyne.

It’s all I have, to numb this pain,
pattern my thoughts, order my brain.

And with self-disgust, I discuss the past,
self-talk: The only friendship built to last.

I think on us all, and what we have been,
a filtered film-still, or some beauty queen,

when life weren’t fair, but fortunes true,
when the sky still ran that azure blue,

love no more than a hungry kiss,
some manufactured teenage bliss.

And lo, I’ve no friend to confide my heart,
each pound of muscle to create my art,

each longing of longing for reader’s love,
and my origins with the stars above.

No, reader, my dear, you’re all that is left,
to align my soul, frequently bereft.

So, read not this page as poetry,
but of the union of you and me,

we sit in life so clumsily
and yet with poise, we love so endlessly.