It comes in portions, potions for the tired brain.
I dig my hands and toes in the current,
trying to maintain.
And I fix myself another drink
to avoid the pictures behind my eyes when I blink.
And I’ll have to cover all the white sheets with men and ink –
to prove my capacity to not and to think.
Your scenes have blackened my eyes
And I only live to acquire another vice.
And all the sad songs are lullabies
And all the memories are morning cries.
And it was never part of the plan
to be more far away than
a plane drifting to an unknown land.