Getting pensive over my expenses, I’m a spent force
a dead horse flogging outside odds and uneven spots
retelling stories that grow taller every year
harvesting a garden of home-grown emotion
digging deep for foundation creep
encasing the past in insta-fossil concrete
creating a strata of wire frames and week days
holding it together with white knuckle strength.
In a lonely chord you find the middle note
the point where major slips to minor
where a scrap of holiness may be snatched
from the chaos of those subliminal depths
sacred smoke and a perfect tone demanding
nothing more than an eternal loop
repeating unbroken until the sun returns
and mumbling your words in my sleep.
As the sky turns to egg yolk, my scrambled head
hangs heavy over dry retching toast crumb collections
wondering how I can slumber yet never awaken
with dawn fresh made and breakfast just broken
letters begin to align in awful designs
and I can’t remember which tablets I’ve taken
until you find the middle note
and pluck the strings of my heart.