it is the nights without a name
it is the nights without a moon
when moisture
nearly chokes me
bitter odor of blood
spouting out
of every stopped trumpet
nights without a name
nights without a moon
the sorrow which lives in me
oppresses me
the sorrow which lives in me
chokes me
nights without a name
nights without a moon
when I would have liked
to be able to not doubt more
so much nausea it obsesses me
a need to escape
without a name
without a moon
without a moon
without a name
nights without a moon
without a name without a name
when disgust is anchored in me
                Tr George Wallace