The opposite is what you get she said,

As she stood there by the door.

There are donuts in the love seat,

There is a ballet in the corridor,

There are beignets on the wall,

There is hair strewn on the floor.

It reminds me of a slaughter,

Somewhere I’ve seen before.

A place forgotten to the sound,

The sound of laughter and of joy,

Cause no one is around,

At least not anymore.

And if by chance you see it,

Don’t think on it all that hard.

There are white pills in the bedroom,

Construction in the yard.

There used to be lifeblood here,

But it was more than I could take.

I took a loan out on the ugliness,

And tried to drown deep in the lake.

She stabbed me with a kitchen knife,

In a place I used to feel.

Now it’s just a gaping hole,

That no longer yearns to heal.

At the moment rhyme and reason are locked together at the horns.

I never swore that I’d give up,

But how I tire of the thorns.

If I obsess then I might make sense,

Or then again make more,

More ways to confuse the reason,

That I’m still standing at your door.

You never stop

I never stop

Keep spinning

Keep turning

Love on

Love off

Love on

We are getting old

This is getting old

The end