A half-hearted collapse sent the
down-draft into an intermission
that had me reeling.
For a fish who doesn't like water,
fire has a habit of enticing those
fleeting eyes turned full black
into coal burning out the insides.
White rabbits race across curling
smoke lines, tracing up
towards our batting lashes.
There's really no point in having
a fire while the sun is still lit,
and the moon can't be concerned
with the gestures it gives;
providing shadows with a polite place
to hide from the formalities of life.
We are closer to ghosts then
we wish to admit, believing that if
there's hope to transcend
this fragile shift in existence,
well, all the clocks would sound
as the crash spelled out "The End"
in long, elegant lettering between
the familiar bells and whistles.
Complication in a single word: simple.
But these feather-tips are prepared
for my final flight to heaven,
dipped in a gentle suicide script.
Tasteless ink splits the sky,
a divide I've wanted to confide in
and claim bad weather as my alibi.
'Cause i've already got that
sinking feeling; alone death's
left thinking it's only relative.
Hands holding a heavy head
positioned below the ceiling,
and I'm stealing gravity,
or a less efficient sedative.
For the time being...
Just Drown Me.