dawn paints these white walls:
grey day of misfortune
finds its way into a defunct bed.
questions turn to ash,
leaving their barbs
in the cloth of an ebb tide pillow.

beneath a wasteland of thread,
yesterday's cast-off skin crumbles
as i try to slip back in.
in a bed of ruins,
i tell myself tales
that hold no water
until I drown
in the dead light of day.

08/15/2005

Author's Note: Is every day the worst day of your life?

Posted on 08/15/2005
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