From a dark red room in the sun

The motivation to update this, (as expected) is dying away. No that's not a hint to start commenting; it genuinely doesn't bother me. Nevertheless, wrote this a few nights ago, thought you might want to read it. It's not particuarly poetic, nor lyrical, but I'm sadistic, so read:

The story so far-

An hour ago, I was going to get changed,
But I doubt I’ll go to bed,
A day ago I was getting drunk,
But I’d rather get stoned instead,

A week ago I was writing a poem,
And planning to send it to you,
But like every ambition; and love-mad transmission,
I couldn’t follow it through,

A month ago I was going to revise,
And prepare to sort out my life,
But I guess like the snail; I can slowly fail,
And slide down the blade of life,

A year ago I was urging you here,
Dreaming; just as today,
And as usual with you; 2 minutes, and we’re through,
So who’s the one running away?

And fifteen years – what’s there to tell?
An idea not even thought through,
A mistake in the making; with consciousness waking,
A lonely red room with a view.