The brass horn of my brother's trombone
Rests carelessly and reflects things upside down
I, wreathed in gold, stare out at myself in cold resignation
I can already taste the nightmares that Morpheus will whisper into my ear
While I'm two breaths away from asleep
And the dark of the night is seeping underneath my cavities
I am entombed like this
As trapped as my upside down reflection
Thickly seized by my own apathy,
I stare at a toppled beast; an instrument that will not play
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In Which
PoetryA collection of poems about my experiences battling bipolar disorder, OCD, and addiction.
