Can you call it a mistake when you knew it was
And did it anyway?
Can ghosts of the near-living and not-quite-dead
come to haunt the weekend tweakers
and do-it-yourself damned?
When you can’t find pity even in a mirror
And your own songs go down like glass in your gullet
Your poetry pulls up stakes
Hushed, like gypsies under harvest moons
Rolling on to find more fertile grounds
SensibleUnsensible 
