2x7

 
The entrance to winter has been slow this year  
and I don’t know how to think  
patterns and behaviours  
have a way of repeating  
repeating  
grey haze of the sky clear evidence  
that it’s too dark to see anything clear  
 
all the therapy in the world  
and I’m still trying to figure out the Fibonacci sequence of a broken heart duct tape won’t heal  
 
some days I wish I could bury my aches  
then sell the ground to be consecrated  
by a priest that drinks too much  
and doesn’t believe  
 
because it’s all nothing more than  
piss coloured swill at the bottom of a warm glass  
I always blow up the beautiful things  
so I can write pretty  
trite words  
about the anguish