Places I Don'T Belong
In your arms
or thoughts swirling in the density of mad clouds
A circle of friends drunk on happiness
At home, where a mother and father
once understood but no longer see straight
he is a drunk and she a waiting room lady with a magazine
By the side of a hurting friend
who flails like a dead fish in angst
only to not heed an attempt to pull the hook
Under the smirking sun
stripping the flesh from brittle bones
the better to burn away a heretic, my dear
On this earth, a musty orb
savage and dried as a backroom prune
leaking the dreams of what could have been
if I were welcome there
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