Just before I left sleep behind
I borrowed a series of chords
so I could swerve my way through
the days I saw yawning in front
of me like graves freshly dug
and I declined to ask permission
and I declined to apologise
and refused to offer recompense
because I was convinced the chords
were mine or, if not mine, common,
as in communal, as in common law,
the commons and so on, a case
of breathing the air we breathe
without asking where it came from,
of drinking the water falling from
a cloud, and I walked through my days
past the open coffinless graves
with that music inside me,
it was for the moment mine,
and while I intended to let go
of it, to share it with those around me,
I was alone when I arrived, afraid
to give up what I had carried
so far, across hours and hours
of pain, regret, and self-hatred
which would have led me dirtward
without this series of chords,
the simplest but most delicate
progression of sounds, tones
I abandoned when I forgot the cause
of my misery, the origin
of my disappointment, the source
of my daily failure to exert
my self in any meaningful way,
and for that music I am thankful
even as I hold onto it too firmly
and for too long, as I overstay
what little welcome I was offered.