Your phone calls are memories
Of grey afternoons
Where raindrops trickle
On the rusty tin roof
The way sadness
And cold bones lurk about you

In my sanctuary
Of cold morgue walls
The wind of the grey afternoon
Engulfs my heart
With wrenching claws

The rest of me jaded to the acrimony

Tonight
I crave your calls
And the song of sunlight
That comes only from your voice
My heart’s only salvation from
The November wind
That battles my spirit
Trying to devastate
To torment
To try and blast away
The little fire left
Of our passion