q: getting a life


First, we need an inside man.

Hospital Chairs

That round white pill that makes you complete,

Has you shaking and blank under grimy kitchen light.

Old floorboards that weep beneath frantic feet,

Sorrows that fade like sparks into the Nebraska night.

Wind that rustled leaves has broken every limb,

Shadows of your past that fade and flicker to dim.

My uncle screams at someone through a phone,

And sirens shatter silence in quaint country homes.

Here to pull your mind back from the tomb it roams,

Death was just inches from where you’ve flown.