when I think back on it

 
 
 
 
the lions of morning  
at my throat  
 
coffee as black and  
bitter as the bowels  
of hell  
 
the days on the  
calendar grow  
scant  
 
remembering something  
in your eyes that spoke  
of broken tongues  
and wingless  
birds  
 
what was it again?  
 
ahh yes...  
i recall now  
 
there's only a few small  
steps between living  
and dying  
 
and love is a wounded spider  
with two shattered legs dragging  
itself across a jagged floor  
trying to escape the carnage
of the boot's heel