The Mist of My Mornings

Why cry about things you can laugh at
Said the quote on my bathroom mirror
It wasn’t funny
I thought 
And smiled to myself

The nights have been short
Or perhaps it was I who has been stretched thin
Between two impossibilities 
Of being here and being there
An almost everywhere 
Every thought of mine now
Feels like a bullet through the brain
The very last; and in a way everlasting 
But new ones creep out
Out of this philosophical yeast
Growing in the dark keeps of my mind
Nurtured with cold sweat
And self taught paralysis 

The toothpaste tastes funny
Like old age
These are those days of winter 
When sadness feels warm
Like a hug or a cup of coffee 
Something to snuggle into and fall asleep 
Sadness; the elixir of a dying man
Sadness, yes
And melancholy (Pretty word) 
Made of me and the unholy:
Thoughts, dreams, desires 
Snails creeping on a wet wire

I remember a time 
When I dreamt of being a dog
And lie on the carpet 
Of fallen leaves
Dogs can dream, can’t they? (Yes)
And so I dreamt of being a dog
To come full circle 
A perfection 
My being complete
A zero

The wind from the window
Touches my face
And I blush;
Love is in the air
Or is it despair?
How can one compare?
When being utterly unaware…
(I rhymed on purpose
For they say poetry must taste like a painting)
I gargle and gag
There is blood in my spit 
A rose line 
Branching out like a symphony 
Clarinet and timpani
Violins and bassoons
Bach and Beethoven 
Mozart who died too soon
The tap turns
A thunder
The tap turns
All silence

Good morning