Sing me a song.
Sing of days of folly.
Sing it sad...
Sing it as it is.
Sing its story.

Extend each syllable
into mournful vibratos.
Drown the
crests of choruses
with wrenching falsettos.

Let it be soft...
But sharp as a knife is keen.
Let it reach into my chest.
And grab at the lull in between.

So sing me a song.
Sing to me how I failed.
Serve me my sadness.
Sing to me...
My tale.

All that swims unruly
only crashes into rock.
Wearing down the stoic
demeanour the beholder.

He wails in silence -
his thoughts loud
but his voice shackled.

He buckles;
Then clutches at his
breast knowing he’ll
meet his end with
his tale only told in
illegible runes.

When words form
but the voice is muted,
strings of sentences -
like loose lengths of yarn,
just swimming...
swirling in the currents
of the wash.

They meet,
they connect,
they get tangled up
with each other.

What had before made sense
now swells larger,
more intricate,
more tiresome.

It all converges
into a ******
as the spin cycle ends.

What’ll emerge
is a convoluted mess.



I’m a mess.

And then,
I get hung out to dry.

Are twinkling freckles
pocked up above?

This ceiling of mine
all draped in black.

Looming clouds obscure
as they push and shove.

Just a glimpse...
As I find my way back.