50

…and for the 50th day let’s have a spontaneous poem:

 

No correction, no edit. Just go.

 

this thing   it sat heavy on my heart one time

and I tried but I couldn’t shake it off

it lay heavy like tar on a hot afternoon

I think this thing was sadness

but it may just have been too much garlic

I sat still for a while      in the dark for a while

and I may have dozed off for a moment

and when I came to the press was still upon me

the crow sat on the sill and threw his shadow across me

and no breeze came to lighten the air

my bottle was empty   my bottle was empty

oh god but my bottle was empty

and the dead fruit of the drink sat on my tongue

like a moldering genie my last wish having long gone

my throat was dry and wordless

what new pain was this

without a word in all the world

I was finally alone without a word to call my own

so I sat on in the chair in the darkness

no fruit to my bottle   no word to my throat

no spit to my tongue

friendless we leave as friendless we arrive

naked too   beneath the vault of the stars

the pumped up moon and the unreachable morning

what words   when all the drifting is done

could carry you forward or cradle your sleep

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