Who's got the blues

Mug-kissed Table;
smudge of dirty lipstick
an echo of Clock's tick.
a mortal squanders his prize.
he points accusingly
confusingly
refusingly
at blank faces
beneath Sympathy Sky.

They do not laugh or cry
They sit, watch and sigh
as the madness blossoms
in a single cup of wine.

I cradle you
gently
softly
away;
-As the world cries
in its own demise-
simple because

you are mine.