I live up in the attic
-birds eye view-
At night the wind talks
and the old walls talk,
windows and doors
and hardwood floors,
talk.
And I listen
I don't care much for beds,
just a pillow for my head,
my ceiling curves away
(not too far) above me
I take my medicine
buy myself flowers
dream at night of prisons in towers
(Oh the sermons are the first to rest)
I know the sadness
is comforting
like a worn wool blanket
the ache is poetry,
slipping away
into yourself
Nothing as easy as a broken heart
Nothing harder than
drawing up your anchor
and sailing on
