little house in valongo

I've come to this place
where fear exists
to stare it in the face
to turn it into art

hours are short, very short
the storm hasn't stopped for two days
branches hit the windows
I write poetry to its scratching

twilight comes early, winds change with it
at seven I bring in all my things
my book, my smokes, my jacket
I bring in everything the night might eat
and I go inside

lock the door and look out
as the forest becomes black
I don't see a thing
it will stay that way until the morning
nights are longer here,
longer than anything

so when the light flickles (and it does)
there's a fear of being forgotten
a guilt of being lost
every little feeling
becomes a chord, a note
a melody to sing

this is a sort of happiness
turning myself into music

I am so lonely I could break