An acid trip and the sink still drips
I found cover of night
after nightingales left my
shifting sight
but I've got little to say
that you haven't heard and I
miss the soil between
my toes when the heat
burns my sunlit cheeks
the sink still drips and my dreams
don't stand a chance
against the sound of wasted
water in the night
I'm longing to make a change
when I realize I already
have but all the
same I'd like to make it
again if it would
mend the memory of
nightingale wings pushing on
through the snow
soaked skies and still
the sink drips on and I'm
left reminding myself
the roots beneath
me have changed but one
day soon I'll have to
scream to call it all back to me
any other day
I'd disagree but just now
I think an acid trip
will be about as mundane
as the drip of the sink
if I can't manage to let it last
to let it change
the ways I choose to see
this old frame
desperately fighting against
every warped
memory I've made
and every sheltering night that
made me.