Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Exile,

your brain fogged over in passing

lay still, sheets bunch like sandpaper

against your skin

who were you? Before

ethanol poisoned the dream

were you a child, knee deep in sea foam, or

half hearted melancholy in Autumn,

peddling beneath crimson bowed

willows?

or perhaps you could

be found, running alongside

twilight, lungs a steam engine

cycling the hot summer air, triumphant,

unaware you live the prelude

to your own

tragedy?