The old deep blue has come home again
rode in on the wings of an arid December.
Now it’s here, most days, just to help you remember
the taste of a broken mind,

And the old deep blue is home again
it opened the door to let itself in.
Now even your toothbrush knows its teeth marks,
running sporadically,
down the white-green sides.

On the streets, today, try to hold in a whimper
that the old deep blue will push forth.
But regardless of effort the floodgates will falter
rendering all composure false.
Cower from the glances of piteous sympathy,
and steely nonchalance.

And the old deep blue will stay home again
tieng your wrists to the bedpost.
Confining seemingly indefinitely
your soul to a box-sized room.

And maybe no one else will ever know
for no one ever knew.
Your loose long limbs kept prone with apathy
it's a sign of the uncouth.
Because most are spared from this feeling
that, by chance, has been endowed to you.

And so old deep blue is reborn again
in the space in your brain where the light let loose,
where each morning you woke up and said hello
to the whole goddamn, fucking neighbourhood.

And submerged within the old deep blue
when the inevitable will approach
we’ll embrace these open, unkempt arms
having never learnt to float.