The sun and the moon and clouds and stars

Lastly, the sun languishes.
Lately, the horizon of a grey sky.
smoke hot and sweet
smolders from red bitter light
in my palm. Thrown shadows like shards.
over the raised letters
Of my books once through
Did Escape they’d provide?
No more do words I find enthrall in
Tangle tales and adventures.
All have ended, all have gone

Lastly, the words falling
Lately, closed tome in my lap
Soft, stitched-by-hand
in quilted reds with pine
and hugging burgundy hues
Not sex nor booze nor food
Tastes pleasing on these lips
What was Siddhārtha’s choice?
Too tired to wake, too wakeful to slumber
Upon my side to lay
And consign to fitless dream
My Beautiful Annabel Lee

hear now, as I write:
I seek not pity, nor sympathy nor advice.
Only you, dear reader, your ears
or rather your eyes to listen
through finger tips tapping tick tick tacking
Only to say you, I, a pal - a cohort
like you, I, adrift - a question