a thousand times or two
with their careful pauses and lovely glances
to the side and back again
like the pendulum swinging low over me
and at this point i might take the pit
i might choose delirium over despair
and again take fog over my fate
because when it comes down to it
i find that i'm afraid of these loud noises
the gunpowder that comes with the last stand
so i'll be quiet i'll be good
i'll take my pills like you say i should
because at the end i'll go
with a whispered wail of a whimper
not a bang
(but i'll leave my words to scream for me
hidden in the eaves of this pointed roof
and one day the swallows will find them
or the small handed children with sharp eyes
and they'll cut through this ink
and this ink will cut back
and i'll have my last laugh
a bang after all)
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