Dedicated to Sandy Denny

I am a weeping man of what could be. Holding onto what strands of happiness I find in a dimming haven of childhood memories. I sink into a glowing mood of rot. Crawling into sunlight peering through windows. The neighborhoods I see in dreams convene at a depth. I see a yard singing to us in the Summer. And fading into cozy shades of red. It feels like I'm chained to a stake behind the house like a dog who was never loved. Never loved. I see Sandy Denny lofting her aching body into the concrete pillow. And now I'm stomping up the stairs from the basement I grew up in, wondering what she felt when the door finally close and the lights burned into pale white.