So I'm unshaven since October and drinking near to rancid wine.
My throat tastes a fiery vinegar itch.
Haven't left the house for me in over a two weeks.
with legs grown sore from missing miles.
And I circle pathetically in my half life happiness,
I'm subsiding into the past.
Or the past is subsiding into me.
But I'm ghost walking my way into tomorrow.
And I don't even pretend, anymore, to have control over this undertow
-I know I'll never remember how to swim again,
But there's no more need to breath.
My heart, stilled, keeps pumping away.
With,
or without me.
To suffer a Spring thaw I've never wished for,
and watch for a sun that was long past setting.
| | Aren't we fucking presumptious (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small} seespotrun1down) wrote, |
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