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.

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