The clock wouldn’t stop, nor was it to slow down, the sun merciless with orange.
I Savour the Burn of the arid days.
The bleeding sunsets and calm waves, all whispering over and over.
Like a broken carousel around and around once again.
The day was done and the daydreams kept gushing.
Smoke and abrupt laughs my dawn was Blue, Blue, Blue.
The candlewick draws closer and closer the wax gapes, humbled by the faint fire.
The joke of life burning steady, a lifetime of waiting and nothing to live for.
A dove on my window sill bleeding under the sun.
The pure white of it all was so innocent.
It bled drop by drop as the candle burned on.
It was a tragic Friday.