Tomorrow's For Sale

A tipped bottle on the windowsill next to the wine cascade, overlooked by the half -- (empty) – moon. The cat that painted autumn upon the trees, forgot me, instead, green turned straight into naked bark. Yet, pleading for prestige is ironic like a speech made by a cartoon character. It must be humoured like a neon kiss from a stranger, and then discarded with the sketchy magazine. Hushed away, with the spilt fruit juices, mopped up by my dirty smile (hidden up my sleeve.) Usually, I leave the muddle for the morn’. But, tomorrow is for sale.