Cope

This is a Sunday evening letter

proses pulling at me from canyons and rooftops.

I could use a glass of wine,

as belladonna and lilies

spill across my floor.

All I can do is doing fine.

I've paced our footsteps restless,

the things we've spoken without a sound.

You make me fly into the ocean

And swim within the foggy air,

lift me through the wreckage

and brush off the despair.

The blade's gone deeper

than I've ever push before.

Muted angels look down in scorn

at the sinner ways I cope,

my tragic flaws make me stronger

and there is always hope.