The Last Days of December

What shall we tell them?

A honeymoon brief as a walk in the park

What shall we tell them when they ask?

And they'll ask

Could you not see another way out?

Was the place without sun?

Was it furnished in black?

With the ache of the gas-oven

there at your path

A death-angel paces in boredom and waits

It shrieks from dark corners undermining your faith

What shall we tell them when they ask?

And they will ask

Could you not see another way out?

Where were the cape and the coast-line?

The wonder-kid's sunshine?

Your sanity shattered

in climbing the walls

Wet towels at the floor-lines

stuffed under the doors

And the beating of powder-black wings left you blind

The last days of December are the loneliest kind

In the exit you made

there was no pause for thought

Cause the lies that I told

were the lies that you bought

There was no place to find you,

no you to be found

In the margins of books you were reading

there were stages to grieving that won't let you down

Where was the coast-line?

The wonder-kid's sunshine?

Under northern skies

anonymous and free

your night-fisherman pushes

a boat out to sea

You'll surely meet shores

though his faith is unsound

There are stages to grieving that won't let you down