a sad state of being
coward
in the face of seeing
how we could
butter and buttons
are boring
the sky is of thunder
and pouring
sheets hanging
blind to soaring
ghosts of the past
keep sour

on a soul
despite
what you think
you know

old demons
kicking and screaming
old meanings
licking at the dream

“I want to stay with you”
dripping from the beams

butt whats really sad
is the pleasure I’ve had
watching what bursts
through
wicked
seams

“come Grover
it’s but a clover”
and they’ll never
really know what I mean