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

And 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

And I rise

I write

To feed this fire

I rise

I write

To feed this fire

I rise

I write

To feed this fire

I rise

I write

To feed this fire

On a quiet night seen through closed eyes

There is nothing but a sound dying to be found

On a quiet night seen through shut eyes

There is nothing but a sound dying to be found