If you may..
As I say.
Lying under the pile of hay..
Hiding from the wrath of a sunny day.
For there are promises to pay.
For there was heaviness in your may.
For a wanderer can loose his way.
For all I know is loneliness is the actual prey.
For an irreversible wait can delay..
Chaotic stains are kept just for display
Hands stretched out..
Until they give out a nervous prick.
Wounds left open.
Until they ease on their fatal stink.
This stay was never meant..
To follow the broken.
You never did stay.
As what’s left out..
Now is some ashes of your last smoke..
In this pale looking ashtray.