I’ll happily make bed,
Upon the charred remains,
Of scattered bad habits.
Like stubble,
The brown sharp twigs,
Snap like crackling fires.
I cant take all day,
Sleeping in the midnight sun,
I cant praise,
The moon as i should,
As it faces me by day.
Should life collapse,
I’ll be at home brooding,
With a dog on my lap.
These are words of a janky soul,
Cranky, and not awake before eleven.
The Humble Rock Dove 