Covet this staleness and kiss this blank rage.
Envelope yourself in staring at grey rain.
Celebrate the pocket knife of Monday nights.
Savour the bitterness of black wine.
Refute the memory of rose-silver lips.
Beat nails into the songs of hope.
Read hurt into the hours that heal.
Refuse the suggestion of a single perfect day.
Sleep well beneath the skeletal sheets.
21 April 2003
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