Back to Black

Helloooo, Helloooo, It's good to be back, good to be back.
Gary Glitter references, nice way to start blogging again Steve.
Anyways, hello all you sexy poet types.  It's been a while.  How are you?  You look different.  Have you lost weight?  I love what you've done to your hair!
So anyways.  I've been inhabiting an alternate universe of spreadsheets and risk assessments recently and Have. Not. Written. A. Single. Thing. Since. My. Last. Blog.  So it was a nice experience to be asked to contribute.  A bit similar to Trinity hacking Neo's computer to wake him up from the Matrix, with Ash playing the part of sexy leather-catsuit clad reality-check.
So, two things have happened.  Firstly, rusty as I am, I've done a pome innit.  Secondly, due to the theme, 'Sad Valentines' it's a bluddy luv pome.
I think I might throw up.
I got thinking on the theme and thought I'd start with depression as it's been a recurring theme in my life and probably the reason I write in the first place.  The poem went off from there.  It's less a finished piece, more a collection of images.  I don't know how well it works as a lot of the imagery is unexplained.  I never carried on to elucidate but for some reason I quite like leaving it that way.
If there's one thing I remember about this blog, it's that it screws with your formatting so if this doesn't come across, imagine that each line is further indented than the last, like steps going down.
And the grey
    And the grey
        Ascends
            Ascends
                Again
Silver lining, tin-foil dull,
    Charcoal-chased mornings,
        Whose obscured flame
            Dews in the lungs,
                Clouds in the brain,
                    Coalescence in flesh,
                        Aluminium reflects,
                            Ascends
                                Ascends
In feckless gaze,
    Like an aging pet,
        I'm blank, expectant,
            Faithful, dead.
                A waning moon
                    Scythes sore throat
                        And calls me friend
                            In migraine eyes
                                The gray ascends.
The misted mind,
    Exhaled,
        Eight-twenty-five a.m.
            Another velvet morning,
                Stoop-shouldered,
                    Bus-sheltered,
                        Thoughts kicking absence of leaves
                            On phlegm-flecked concrete,
                                Paving present
                                    Reality.
Retreat,
    Rescind,
        My memory....
To bedroom black
    Where
        She
            Snores
Beautifully.
Like I said, a bit rusty.  A bit rushed.  But I gone done it.
Right, I need to get off to that phlegm-flecked bus stop.  There's spreadsheets a-need doing.
Have a nice day folks
Steve