Towards some kind of sanity

 

 

Towards some kind of sanity

 

The kitchen smells

as if a body has been left

behind the fridge freezer all summer.

 

You step up in front of me,

with shredded fingers,

your blood covered guitar

slung over your shoulder.

 

You’ve been providing emotion since 1984

and invigorate parts of my body.

No longer white,

I show you where your evening leads.

You make a map on my back

and when I look in the cracked bathroom mirror,

its one of the most painfully beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

 

In your own little world,

you cry softly,

while they bandage your fingers,

and prop your guitar against door.

 

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