Slow Ride

Ride the slow ride of the secret pain, the fuse she drove into the stony ground, where I hailed from fell infected with a deathly malaise that hangs around. Detected so faintly within my eyes the dying light that barely ever shines, as if by a stretch I ever cared for barstool nights and chat-up lines. Never is safe to go outside, where gutters are flooded with frying rain, and if I were to taste her mouth her lipstick forever kissed a stain. And if I took such a liberty to screw convention and then assume, my heart I would bestow on her when far too late she left the room. Should I stumble and should I fall whose arms would catch me on the way? for now I am frail as porcelain, I smash to eggshell every day. And with my speech I bring her down with promises rare I never keep, I speak in tongues the sorriest truth of milk that spilled and pointless weep.