Morning, now – fuzz on the tongue marks the place
where half dose meets eleven hours under,
and I cannot push the pillows aside.
This air reeks of sweat wrought of base
desire, control by which I do not abide.
Too poor to break things during a fight,
so we shatter smiles found after too long a night
Morning, now – a start to what? I wonder.
Empty cupboards the result of irrevocable raids
tell my story, old as old:
scars and aches, muscles torn asunder,
searching for someone to hold.
A painting – trees on the bank of a dam – encased in black,
a reminder of better days to which we cannot go back
Morning, now – dissonance of fan blades
swirling, cutting the alarm chime;
this lethargy, my unasked for bane.
Day spills to night and memory fades
while so many misplaced efforts to rest are lain.