Cellophane mounts,
Where the sacred forbids,
And my ribs ache a little,
And the sofa’s rotten,
Come the morning you weren’t here.
Laundry molds,
When the dishes welcome roach,
And my tongue’s among dry,
And my ankle’s gone numb,
Come the morning you weren’t here.
The music’s somewhere else,
Where the air’s more stale than before,
And my finger’s twitch a’call,
And my ears cry before the baby,
Come the morning you weren’t here.
Plaster cakes the floor,
When the door knocks certain death,
And my bones start to bare,
And my shoulder’s poking through,
Come the morning you weren’t here.
Green becomes a the fridge,
Where night’s now alter years,
And my side starts to burn,
And my lungs whimper when eased,
Come the morning you weren’t here.
But I am. Oh Lord! I am! And near ends
When the state sucker-punched,
And I know you feel the same
And our son feels the same,
Come the dawn prior day we’d fled.
