Knuckles

Raw, a nubby grey knuckle-boned day, when the wind blows through my skin pulling at the cord which holds my insides in, oh infernal internal wall keeping without without and within within, off key Wednesday crashing chords that I have swallowed not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow, or the music I have made thus far in life and the ones that I have begged or borrowed as always I’ll wait for it to pass fill the gallow glass to fetch me a drink while I think but no-one is near my fault, not because I fear them I hear them in the hall scratching but I don’t let them in it would give them a chance to win I need them on my page to take away the blank fill it with ink because being empty stinks I don’t want the void empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole so I’ll sleep, hope to feel when I wake no idea how much more time it is going to take will it break me or make me perhaps I will try the fake me the one with the smile the one I revile but there it is sat on my face smug and satisfied, all while I’m melting away a Dali soft watch on this raw knuckled day