Friday Morning

Frustrated, festooned with shards of broken dreams
He emerged out of a mad and moonlit ocean, he was
Soaking in spit and a leeching fatigue, somehow
feagued and fostered by the same remorse

The shooting stars shot glances of pity, poised
in military formations against every undead soldier of fortune -
(Like him) Fed on rations of fear and fucked
till the numbing depths of their torture were
Subsided by the eroding heights of his pain

With the featherbedded twisting under freckled skies
He swallowed a fistful of the feckless night and
Fought with Friday morning all through the weekend

Fake or otherwise, he felt the need to falter
To Fess up to what was false and feeble and bow
Fore’ what was the fateful for only the free -
Are the ones who fuse following with
Forgetting.