(this is really raw, wrote it in bed this morning after not being able to fall back asleep)
The son never sleeps
and the pain drops start to
fall from the sky. And as the gray
creeps through the blinds,
keeping the two bodies of
the bedside lovers flush with cold air,
thoughts stir up about the next house
they'll live in.
A clouded mind creates the illusion of
if a hot air balloon and a human skull
were to have a bastard child.
Hot air rises
Hot air rises
Hot air rises but
there is no place for it here.
The son never weeps.
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