The Slow Murder Of My Night By Doubt
the slow murder of my night by doubt.
The traffic outside is light but audible so
I made snow angels on the sheets.
I'll show concern when I feel concerned.
I've become this thing you see
with words and all of them are in arrears.
In the end it's our capital
that loves distress signals.
These brief steps backwards linger into night.
Look! I can go back to where I came from
before I was born if I want to.
Dear October, it is difficult
to hear you so you should
finish brushing your teeth
and climb into bed.