weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
that line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddles lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through
beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in
une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown