Kept under your bed is a rope of dried twigs, Elderflower and lemongrass, Exudes from the chipping paint. Go, now; Away from those who remember you leaning upon the neighbourhood postbox, Next time, I’ll have younger skin.
A cold white mist on the horizon. An Eire voice that sounds like bees.
Am I floating? Am I alive ?
A choir of innocence immersed in sorrow.
Standing at the Barb wire of the saddest place on Earth. Trying to understand the unforgivable.
Being led by conscience and a buzzing mist. Lifes choices are hard and usually unfair . But, you choose and move on . Hoping you will not need to be forgiven.
The path forks through quiet emotions. But , the truth is always well hidden .
Tears pool at the feet of mortality. Candles line the stonewalls of fate flickering in the rain .
Cutting a tunnel through the silence of the morning . To elicit forbidden sensations of lustful embroidery. Spiking trees to save the forest , pulling stakes in civil disobedience. All within the nuance of a border town where the misty swamps hold no fever .
Sweeping views of the hinterlands with backwater thoughts In the rain . I have carried the burden of a thousand bad decisions with a sleepy vagabond gilded halo .
Waiting for the bridge to be rebuilt after it burned in the dawn . Showing me the forest as I’m stuck in the trees. Memories really mired in the mud of my sacred platte of ground .
Lost in a rainy midnight silence of fear . Affliction , the laurels of the fires of adversity.
Lightning flickered in the stillness of the night . Quiet but for the distant thunder.