A Sunday morning

I can't get deeper with this bottle

I wholeheartedly want it's depth

Nothing feels as right

Nothing so honest

In all our drudgery

It's trustworthy

In it's consistent deception

Running parallel to

The world

The world

Flurries of thought

Are meant to drown in it

That's alright, that's the point

There are few things as greedy

As sharing a bed

With your end