It’s five in his morning half way between dark and light

He sits on the bed

His guitar in the corner

His mouth dribbles and trembles trying to shake off the thoughts he lives

The words he is trying to form come out in a huddled mess

And the dawn is fighting with the clouds and the night

The smell of his breath and sweat hangs in the air

Like it’s five days old, the wet and dry cat rot crunch

Of throat and nerves fight the fight of flight and surrender

A solitary empty bottle rolls across the floor

As he grabs his old guitar by the neck

Looking for something clean and untouched amongst

The paper scraps the dirty plates knives and forks

Last week’s coffee cup growing mould

And there it is a virgin white pad and pen

Among the detritus of rolling smokes and Tokes

Half bitten and chewed over in some forgotten feud

As he turns over and puts down in words

That fight that never was but could have been

 A steady steaming scrawl eschews

An he strums and howls out the blues until he has no more

And he says that’s it closing his eyes and goes to sleep

Through all that he calls night

Oblivious to the changing tide of sun and moon

Until four o’clock a flush of water across his face

A bowl of cornflakes and an attempt at cleaning teeth

Then down and out on the street guitar in hand

Into the underground taking the tube to the club

Where he will play and sing for his supper

To the disinterested the groovers the sycophants and acolytes

Then when the moon has sunk and the sun has risen

He is back to the place he calls home

His penance paid and himself forgiven

For a sin he did not commit or did he, he can’t remember

But the dreams are gone and the song is sung

And somewhere along the line he has lost the life that was because

Redemption came knocking and he said yes