Time cares not for your tears,
nor contemplates the weary years,
it toils with its prey inside its lair,
feasting on our pain and despair,

It cannot sooth a weeping soul,
or spirit dark as blackened coal,
it bares no comforting arms to hold,
just scorns in jest as our life's unfold.

Walking in somber.
Bitten by tragedy.
Finding the fault.
Death of the comedy

Leaving my print.
Sad words to say.
Film on the floor.
Gone another day.

The spirits of the dead.
They're fleeced as naked sheep.
They hang cold and desperate.
Howling over desolate isolated moorland.
Screaming on the gale.
The linger just a moment, where man nor beast exist.
This ethereal racket, caused by the sharp and biting gorse bush.
It's scratching wounds, deep into grey shadows,
Left overs of spoiled souls.
(C) Livvi

Tick tick tick
I live in a world a grey
Tick tick tick
I can't breathe I can't breathe
Tick tick tick
Alone. So alone.
Tick tick tick
All my fault all my fault
Tick tick tick
She's could have been dead
Tick tick tick
I could have killed her
Tick tick tick
She's gone because of me
Tick tick tick
Broken shattered bleeding
Tick tick tick
When did I become a murderer
Tick tick tick
The story is nearing its end
Tick tick tick
The story of my twisted mind
Tick tick tick
Tick tick tick tick tick
TICK TICK TICK
TICKTICKTICKTICK TICKTICKTICKTICK
...tick
......tick
.........tick
........
And all that was left was ashes
Because she was the ticking...
...and the ticking...
...was not a clock.

He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's

stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover

He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch

He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone

Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin

Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased

His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies

He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar

Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town

there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.

© M.L.Emmett