November 2011
2 posts
You say it makes you nervous when I stand up
I’m always moving, shifting, changing,
Trying for a better fit in a bitter cup.
I say I understand that my smoke makes you cough,
Then you sigh, moan, roll your eyes,
Tell me you’re more comfortable with the lights off.
The volume of the music grows in the night,
You like the fiddles, guitars, banjos,
But you hate that my...
the dreariness is the clouds in my drink.
the grey smell of smoke from the bonfire
persists long after the people have gone,
the lights turned off and the doors locked.
and a silence returns to the vicinity that
begins to pervade, invade my skull
until nothing else matters but the loud ringing
of nothing and of no one. colour, too, fades
away as monochrome becomes the theme.