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