the cold lips of Grief

sip away my essence

like a zombie

getting smash'd on

corpuscle cocktails

. . .and the drinks are on me

maybe i'm attempting to

pacify its necessity

to subsist on my

dwindling supply

of liquid optimism

in the middle of this night,

i find myself sitting straight up

staring near-sight'd

into the amber halo

from the flickering face

of the second-hand clock

that never ever keeps correct time

it is paling dim in the presence

of Grief on call.

in light of my recent deprivation

neither of us wishes

to be cold

so i in turn conjure up

a teapot of healing that

whistles in the wind

and i offer Grief

a bottomless

cup of tears

and the two of us,

we sit--just sit

on a beat-down re/upholster'd

love seat,

with cushions mash'd flat from

many nights like this before

alone, together, in a darken’d room

attempting to defrost our disenchantments. . .

warming one another with a toast

to homeless dreams

© 2005, cynth’ya lewis reed

all rights reserved.