A silent misery sitting in a golden cage.
Watching the day's passing by
My heart feels like an over flowing astray
Listening to another dead man's tale
Dreaming of the moment where I can
Get on that highway to tomorrow
Leaving this day behind.

Spreading marigold
dust at the feet of uncovered
deity, I ask, was there
any home to go back?

Why did you walk
away from the tree-
of wisdom?

Why do we conceal
our wounds, talking
about metaphysics?

It was not what
I had wished to be original.
Life takes its pound
of flesh.

A question mark
will always follow you.

tell me how
the most broken
beaten down
torn up
stripped to the flesh
people

could ever get back up
brush off the dirt
and carry on
like nothing ever
happened.

I like how the beige curtains gently sway in the wind like
a dancing veil has decided to become a professional prima ballerina.

I like the way the sun traces its invisible fingers on the thin surface of fabric, as if every non-existent thing is a special kind of love, no one seems to get, except her.

© fey (20/03/20)

lowry painted pictures in his salford town
with his matchstick people. he would jot them down
chimneys from the factories smoking all around
he put them in his pictures set as a backgroud

he just loved to paint on canvas everyday
lowry he was different with his special way
his pictures they remain and now there here to stay
this painter man from salford with his matchstick way

I can see Spring
and her fine colours
from afar.
I long to stand under the
cherry blossom tree as
it rains confetti down on me.
Instead I stand in real rain, hazy,
pattering, smatterings of daffodils
pressed against barbed wire.