Black Spot

I’m unable to be kind
with this black spot on my
mind’s unstable
so I sharpen up my claws
to remove these evening thoughts

In a spare room lit with old moon
a feather comes undone
a little voice is wrung
From a quiet night comes a new fight
to summon up the sound
that would lift me from the ground

I rise I write

I’m unwilling to undress
With this cold that plagues
my chest
needs filling so I sink into the wine
to loosen up this spine

In a spare room lit with old moon
a feather comes undone
a little voice is wrung
From a spare heart filled with used parts
the dust begins to fall
the feathers find the floor

I rise I write
to feed this fire

On a quiet night seen through closed eyes
There is s nothing but a sound
dying to be found
On a quiet night seen through shut eyes
There is s nothing but a sound
dying to be found