How far down is the back door?
Do you know where I can score?
I’ve got a roof but it still pours
all through my personal grief tours
this anger can’t be any good for
tomorrow, or evermore…
But i fear that it might be more
than what I’ve been granted and taken for
Oh each closing door
and the sinking floor
and the shame, abhorred,
along all my personal grief tours!
I’m always an exhibition,
suffering some sick derision
you won’t believe my sick’nin
sense Cassandra had the vision.
what’s this sonnet i was wrought for?
what’s this gnawing in my core?
i have not met you before
oh, but you spared me the gore… (3x)
but not the war.
xxx
Yours, true,
Lunarloon
