In the morning, one day, I woke up sad
limbs like sea urchins, floating murky
Drawn together by twine and pain, my pipe
sitting in the dusky dawn, parallel
my spider fingers, sinuous good bye
counting down the moments, one to forty

Like arabian nights, counted forty
moments, rubies, diamonds, feeling sad
When my naked body hides, and I wave bye
to liminal nothing, no more murky
moments, in which my heart hides, parallel
thoughts in perfect lines, no touching my pipe

No savoring monoxide death, that pipe
begs liberation, green moksha, no forty
moments of silence, lines not parallel
longer, crossing ashtray dunes, ease the Sad
starlight vision, clarity not murky
every morning the same struggle, bye bye

will, let myself crumble, limestone death, bye
self-restraint, fingers grip, swirling burned pipe
thoughts to Scott Walker drift, a different murky
so close to the revelation forty
though, if I can just hold it, not sad
but awake, cogent, the lines parallel

The metaophors mixed, then not, parallel
To the little monster, I wave goodbye
adenosine agony, not so sad
I don’t need it, the promise of truth pipe
line of smoke, finally hit that sweet forty
conscious mind takes over, thick and murky

But the kind I can handle, the murky
uncertainty in that running parallel
the fear of youth destroyed, at age forty
where dreams wither, and love teardrops bye
And everything sits in the smoked out pipe
but with the sun shining through, i’m not sad

That all I need is forty moments of dark murky
quiet, in the milk sun sad, but awake, parallel
fearing my pipe, but ever hopeful for its bye