As if there were any other way, and yet, there is not…

His quickness to turn over the keys,

that telltale odor on his breath;

his tongue in a flutter of release,

conversing with an overtone of death.

How his face locks up like struck flintlock

or cringes up as he lets loose more tears.

While the accusations flow like hemlock,

despair lies behind these fresh fears.

What else can my heart do but break

as I watch him collapse by my side?

What use to have hope for his sake

when he sees his own truth as a lie?

What else do we have without hope

but another swing on a rope?

And so, bare my heartbreak on another poem…

night

not coming at all

sleep

Day 9 of