Live and Let Down

Waking in these sorry States,

forgetting what broke me down

this way. Scraps of choked up

speech lay strewn on the tiles.

The wind has no waiting room,

it stuffs my mouth with a poverty

to please and partitions my teeth.

I s'pose I assume responsibility

for every attempt gone south

for the winter. The drifts of snow

strike their quiet pose. I listen

closer, and expect the main things:

the puff of trains, the whistling

of the restless wind, the silence

of sunlight. Then, the soft scratch
of the needle stitching it together,
as if the common thread
existed only to comfort me. 

You are more than what makes you sad.

You are more than the sex you've had.
You are more than the hours you put in.

You are more than the drugs you've taken.

You are more than the leavings of your losses.

You are more than a work in progress. 

You are more than the sum of your parts.
You are a dying art.