Picking up the Pieces

How many sorrys do I have?
I’m sure there’s a quota
I’m working through them fast
And I’m sorry for that
Hardly an answer
In my distanced preoccupations

And some of them are ok
With this and so much more
And I’ve run out of excuses
Seeing right through myself
Like a ghost in a mirror
And she’s there too & I hate that

Me dragging her in
To my hopeless graveyard
When she has so much life
Life mere mortals might dream of
Joie de vivres worthy of souls
Bought & sold & traded

And her dress was always a warning
‘Wrong way, go back’
In its shimmering display
Of translucent energy wanting
And my lack of hesitation
Honesty a curse

She motions me in
As pressure forms a cloud
And a subsequent wave
And cities in their sleep
Are caught quite unaware
And fortune favours the mad