the bowl is stuck in the piece.
suck through a small hole of nothing as we float on
through the dreams we cannot have, the woman that will not leave; our thoughts.
all love is through the eye of a bottle and there is only
a reflection of yourself inside.

I want to make sense of it all -
but it is easier to float away. easier to be gone,
easier to hope for the dream;
for worm that doesn't come, not in winter,
but in any season. winter is the inferno for the lost
and the damned, it is their hell and like day for fools.