You drove forward what should have been the ghost of inequality,
generations built on infecting the blood
and bile of the pew renter.
You drove those fluids wild with the thrill of damning thy neighbour
while I Pushed
distant, striving for something you could not even try to understand, for me.
My weakness is that I walked away,
harmlessly subdued by the night.
I don’t know you
when I regain composure
from the self-righteous walk I ran,
I will meet you under the star light.
With a pen, a dream
and enough alcohol to get us through the night because we can.
you and I
gather and collect what has been discarded as disgusting,
vile words haemorrhage – freeing us.
In that place worn by thinkers,
torn by us,
togetherness shared with darkening skies as clouds obscure eyes,
with the pen spilling the ink of nine hundred and ninety-nine silent revolutions
we can drink and dance and kiss and talk because we know in time
that there are monsters under our bed,
watching our limps and aches
telling us we are better when we lust for solitude to contemplate
the end of days, the end of our journey.
We are broken but we’ll scrape by until we are forced to stop because
we will be of no worth
and so they will make us.
So should I have even wasted the seconds regaining composure
to fight the battles I would always lose,
even when I had persuaded you to stand side to side.