walking blissfully unaware over
the ossuary and ashes of folk
who danced and loved by moonlight in this space
where we build our abodes and bless our hearths
break bread and lay in a peaceful slumber
beneath a night glistened by the cold glow
of heavens departed before their light
emblazed the passage we recklessly trod

old friends laugh as I drown
in a dry river bed,
and when they offer hands,
I ask for rain instead,
and when it does not fall,
I crawl to the near shore,
**** on shards of dry grass,
and claw the earth for more

the bone dry days accumulate
at a slow and torturous rate,
yet every night i find the way
to raise my empty glass and pray,
"Aye, so the clock does not restart,
bless this weary, still beating heart."

After we serve our nighttime tours,
we’ll break our fasts and strip the taps,
swallow the rivers, swim through doors,
dance the twelve step on basement floors
and dig our graves with bottle caps.

And when the moon drowns in the trees
and we’re down to a lonely dime,
we’ll make an altar of the breeze
and pledge our love to this disease,
a vow to one day at a time.