Shadow has its Way

So tired . . . so very tired . . .


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Shadow has its Way
Gone like a long ash from a neglected smoke is the old misery.
The boredom of healed wounds yields lazy days of lazy sleep,
And you begin to miss the heat and meaningfulness of sadness.
Mania, whose bandaged mask resembles joy, is soon exposed:
Nude, impotent, withered, harsh light on false dreams, false cure.
The drink again calls. Do you remember the old story of love?
When alone with your most familiar self, shadow has its way.
Needing bar lights on drunk faces, smokes, pool with misfits.
Nervous fingers, cramped, nothing to write but apologies to God.
Old misery had structure, beauty from which gothic angels flew.
Now the eenui of evening, addictionless, cold and numb,
Craving curses, bad sex, raised knife, and shadow has its way.