Coffee cups and ink stained hands
Half finished thoughts, part written papers
Aching, craving, sentiment
A purple book, so innocent
Chronicling an atrophy
Of soul

Another glass of whisky, and I'm staring at the door
Asking myself questions, I've never asked before
Because now, I know, that it's okay
To talk about what's in my head
Now I know its normal
To sometimes wish I were dead
I'm writing like I'm running
Out of time, or away
Often, I'm doing both, on any given day
I've pledged to live a life of pleasure
Perhaps I'm out of touch with reality
Maybe, I'm just accepting, my own grim, mortality
I thought that I was golden
I thought the sun was out
Maybe it's just mood swings
Or a mood merry go round

I am floating, drowning
In a *** dream
Words float, about me
Out of reach, as I am out of touch
Here and there, a wanderer
But I do not call to them
I see them, they try
To mend nets, to close the holes
Retain some of the cosmos
That slip through
I hear their low, anguished moans
Moving through, a dream of dreaming
Clocks, melting into a pool of abstract
As time itself ceases to believe
I wake, clocks are solid
The universe is not running
Reality reigns again

The grass is wet
Drops of rain, clinging
To each lolling blade
Like minute universes
Trees, all purple, like a swollen bruise
Or overripe fruit
Bit into, to cascade juices down
The chin of one, who sups upon
The pulpy flesh
And drinks, the juice of life
I fade, and flicker
Far away, and held fast
By that simple majesty
I see in nature
In this wet grass
I see, time's endless passage
Emerald green, vibrant grass
Here, and there, is scattered
All about, with leaves
Withered, brown, old
Marking time's voyage onward
Ravaged, by the passing moments
They do not even blow
Or flutter in the wind
As they did when they
Were green, on summer day
But rest, or are all dead
And will not stir
For what might stir now
The old and decayed
No touch of green upon them
Nay, they will not stir

In this empty space
Sitting on my bench
I am acutely aware
That I am alone
How long then
Since I felt
The fiery confusion, of fumbling kiss
Or many small ecstasies
Wrought by another's hand?
How long then since
In some shared space
With precious little between
Yet still we tried
To close any space
And in this, there was
Fire, and ice, calm, and excitement
How long then, since?
I cannot recall

Strangers at the bus stop
Always moving, a microcosm
Life in miniature
All convinced they need to get somewhere
When it doesn't really matter
They wait, impatiently
And i wait with them
But when my bus comes
I do not wish away the journey
I know that the destination, and time
Are unimportant
Yet, I hope
Someone might speak to me
Fill, however briefly
This silent time existing
With a flicker, of humanity
We will see

You might have passed me
Sitting, on a bench
Maybe with a stranger, smoking a cigarette
Or writing, maybe reading a book
I question, did you wonder?
Who I am, or maybe you thought I had a distinctive feature
For a brief moment, I existed, in the periphery of your own, and you in mine
A meeting, however brief, of our existences