Every subtle whisper is a clangorous bang:
A large bell’s ringing sound resounding in my ears
Bound to buried booming speakers in my skull.
The spring of grief, of the bight before,
Compressed by the fleeting hold of alcohol,
Blooms forth with renewed force at dawn.
What form of magnet draws me to your wholly vitreous insides,
When my sunken self lies in shattered shards?
Why do I seek your battered route of escape,
When I know its trail shortly ends at my captor’s thorny grasp?
If honey has not been ever so sweet,
This sudden romance with gall wouldn’t conjure this much grief.