It Was a Wednesday
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am forgotten by girls in green silk sarongs.
I had been drunk on myself for years,
a moonlit mind caught in a teacup.
Ghosts usurped my very breath,
breathed for me.
It was a Wednesday, or one of those days
with sorrow sewn into it like a prison blanket,
a day when death planted itself deep into my emptiness.
It dragged me up and drug me down
shook all the shadow cats out of my eyes,
it was a slam-dunk take down,
a glorious death by light.
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