It’s good like this,
when I have kissed the day
and the night comes in to
spray me with its brand of spite.
Tarnished might be the new black and
the new black might be grey,
and I have kissed each and every one,
like a prison term, a spell in jail when to
fail was okay and the day spurned kisses,
like I cared then,
among the bad men.
It’s good like this, although I
miss some company,
but just like solitary
you get used to it.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.