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Poem

riding out the storm on my last limb
dragging along my feet in a half-swim
looking at all the fish, throwing all back
feeling out the weather where is my pulse at

are these moods my only mode
the merry maker staying cold
questioning if there's even a soul
or do those get very old?

make a place i have to leave
paint the place and acting free
made a case to have to see
so many people matching me

i follow the little light i have
its not dark but my eyes closed
is being different really so bad?
how far has the water really rose?

up over finding air a labour
come sober leave drunk an hour later
pet the pegasus and cheer the satyr
my fantasy leaves a bitter flavor

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