Home again
the post surgery high long gone
anaesthetic only numbs so much
spending days just sitting,
stagnating with your photo's
and scarlet ringleted dreams
of friendships saved by other methods.
Many coloured sprinkles of poison
line my dresser in precise rows
I sit as the clock watches me watch it,
no thunder running through the halls seems strange but oddly comforting in it's absence.
This constant itch in plaster binding
could drive me to drink, if I could reach the tinkling cabinet of liquid safety but instead you and ink become my drug of choice, one to cause the pain, the other to move it on, a cycle known to all who have travelled with their hearts firmly stitched to their muddy sleeve.