"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag"
And don't forget to ******* smile,
March to death with a jolly tune in your head
Don't question if it's all worthwhile.
Your misery is designed by people out of reach
so blame your pathetic self instead
Be reassured, the undertaker shall paint a smile
on your face when you're dead.
A 'Memento mori' of a Facebook page will remain
like a lingering **** in an elevator
An uncomfortable reminder to the still living
That smiles are the mask of a traitor
Tuning in to a bygone me.
I feel it,
a pair of brown eyes,
with the perfect
the return of
feelings and the
spark, spark, spark
after a year away
I'll be waiting
because he could be
the one I need
for trying to take that
away from me
Watching over the charade below
Rich in empathy and sorrow.
Just to be struck by the realisation
That she is me
And I am lost.
piercing the haze
Two shades of her brunette shall heighten senses
with a fortune in butte her tone will sheen so well
only rapture here does tell ascribable delight
with fortnight of her insight in aberration affront
and like Venus her star in dream will fashion
a romance of prevailing wind that sky alight sunset.
Martha Quin is Martha Dear here.