DEAD HORSE

Didn’t I go over this before?

Falling in love then

counting all I’ve lost,

over and over and over again.

My mind enters a state,

the skies in the winter morning,

a fragile sunlight

like the hue in his eyes.

Feelings, time, the tides,

they’re not on my side.

Time and space,

need to let this fade.

But then I find myself

jiving in his orbit.

This dimension from hell

and beating dead horses.

Because I don’t want

to lift my thumb

when counting great romances

that’ve become passing glances.

My time with him

almost seems divine,

as if the flags rising

aren’t already blazing.

If I let this garden grow

it’ll be flourishing ‘til

all the flowers wilt

or burn in carmine flames.

I’m walking in circles

like it’s my sick passion.

My polka-dot skirts

now so old-fashioned.

I’m suffocating in

his eyes of cold-blue.

I need to stop beating a dead horse

for it’s already dead.

To speak or to die?

Need to let this die.

To be or not to be?

Can’t leave this be.

Nobody needs to know

how he possesses me.

I’m washing my heart

off this dirty little secret.

He’ll never know

my fantasies leave me

with an insatiable thirst.

Besides, it could be worse

like admitting I put you first.

But I will reject

every yearning pulse.

It’s only battering the same steed.

I must stop beating a dead horse,

it’s already fucking dead.