I owe you a favor, I owe you a song

the day old smoke turns into week old hate,
this sky is gray and I am blue,

I look to the clouds, they are month old plumes of heartbreak,
just meandering,

just managing to get by,

and here I am, falling asleep in the windowsill
broken crystals of glass digging into my back
but after a coma, one gets used to discomfort,

I can't bring myself to go outside,

I'm so afraid the world will cease to be, and the sky will fall and crush me,
the night is better, so rarely am I asleep but I am always at least dreaming,
the ceiling becomes a containment mechanism,
for my ballooning, vacationing head,

my closed eyes flicker, a dry smile,

a dumb brain a dumb brain

far away, in distant mountains,

far away from this abandon,

there used to be reveries here, now I just whistle slow lamentations to the crows that hang on power lines

the squawk back, shut up,

so in my silence I created symphonies,
and lacking means to write them down I slowly went insane,
possessed by a string part I could never quite place,

as I trace the raindrops on the broken pane,
I hear the keyboards come in,

little trills like trips down the crooked steps,
arpeggiated,

the clouds roll over and I am drowned out,
by such a thunderous roar
I cannot even begin to think again,

who was I writing this for anyway?