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.