Mourne, morn, adieu to the night
Forlorn, dreaded and trite and short,
With its creeping, cold, blurry lens;
I have neither faith nor fake amends,
And how long is piece of string;
How best now to mark, score my pains?
Twelve long years of twisted hopes,
Five hours sleep, and no new texts,
With daydreams, lukewarm, old, of exes,
Fleeting strangers, with scant, vacant fixes.