Doc is Short for Brian

Watered down whiskey

imprints in me

no self sympathy

catastrophe 

a closer chance

but a further glance

beyond the fever

this dreamer weaves

rests a man alone in bed

his head with less rest

from manufactured restlessness

and schemes of changing time

to get back what was mine,

I mean his,

I mean theirs,

I mean ours

 

Yellow flowers

and silent book depositories

categories 

of what was there

what still is there

somewhere

sitting with Kurt and Fitzy

who warned us what we would be

would hurt

and by we

I mean she and he

for you see- me and thee

was made not to be

so foolishly

by he who cannot rest

singing sad songs in his head

not wishing to be dead

but sorry that he said,

that he left

and though failure just might

man strives to make right

what prolonged adolescence corroded 

with words

bloated and owed to terror

of what was truly longed for

that which was there,

that which was had

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