The sky a bruise of grey

The sky, a bruise of grey,

three nights I’ve fought the day,

my eyes burn red and raw,

a specific, hollow flaw.

The rain begins, then quits,

a rhythm that only fits

this tired, frantic mind,

nothing left behind.

Under the overpass I creep,

where shadows run so deep.

The concrete, rough and pocked,

my head, it feels unlocked.

Smell of damp earth,

and exhaust, a kind of birth

of nothing good, just dread,

a noise inside my head.

Water streaks down a pillar,

a cold, slow, quiet killer

of any peace I knew.

The rain starts up anew,

a broken tap, a leak,

just what my bones now seek.

This walking, no relief,

just endless, weary grief.