This morning,
I watched a moth.
A tatty brown moth.
Struggling to be free,
it's wings were sodden.
It couldn't fly.
From that,
I drew the equation of struggling to work in a fast food joint.
Struggling to prosper, to be set free.
To relax.

Poor creature,
It was fighting hard,
Beyond redemption.
It was lured into the death trap of light,
As it buzzed into my kitchen overnight.

The moth was drowning.
So were the restaurant workers.
The workers have no breathing space,
They can leave at the end of their shift.
It's not the end of their tired lives.

Both struggling to break free.
Inevitably, the moth will expire.
The staff at the drive- through.
They might get second chances.
Unlike the moth from the night light.
They continue to dance,
At the end of the day.
As they flit away.
An honest days wages,
Bought a few pennies pay.
They can scrawl in their journals.
Their tales of the days.
Never lazy days,
The days when they worked at the fast food joint.
(C) Livvi

Somewhere in East London.
Setting sun is sleeping tight.
Welcoming the city lights.

And the honeysuckle curls around the wire.
Where we once lent.
Good times we spent.
But you were a liar.

Summer last year came and went.
Memories of fish and chips.
Such great moments spent.
On Brighton prom.
Sat on that bench.
Our bench.
Watching the rolling waves.
The rolling waves that saved us.
Discarded the wrappers and ran like the clappers.
Flew like the wind.
Which demanded to beat us right round the ears.

Into the sunset.
Lest us not forget how we felt before the sun dared to set.
Seeing you cry before saying goodbye.
Waving careless hands.
Tears that rolled from the end of your nose.
Magic wands.
Can't fix it.
Sought fortune.
In fortune-telling.
Tarot cards selling.
Welling tears.
Many years been and gone.
Still the same old song.
Banging the gong.
All gone.
(c)LIVVI

What will thy recall of me.
When my heart has drifted out to sea.
When I cruise on clouds.
Dance on air.
No longer loud.
Who will know I was ever there.
I have not the impact of an empress.
Nor the magic of a sorceress.
Have not the beauty of a starlet.
I shall maybe just vanish into space.
Become another forgotten statistic.
A name without a face.
(c)LIVVI
Selfishly inspired by the death of Sir George Martin.

Pluck stars from the night sky.
Juggle with them.
As if they're a cosmic Catherine wheel.
Northern lights.
Most personal.
Whoosh.
Whirl.
Riding the sky at night.
Hop on a rainbow.
Ride the tide.
Spring is uncoiling.
(c)LIVVI

The sky it trembled, as it started falling in.
The poplars shook.
As the page of a book became torn and wet.
Forget not the importance of kith and kin, as they creep.
As if boils erupting under the skin.
Each family has a face.
A fantastic visage.
Crowns of thorns can not be broke within a family of workers and jokers.
With bright red hot pokers, that become stirred, but not shaken.
Futures' forsaken.
Harps played by hypocrites.
That shear their fingers.
Drawing blood instead of tears.
The knitting of a family.
Bonded on needles two at a time.
Drop just one or two stitches, all will be fine.
Clash and battle.
Cages rattle.
Clever simians.
(c)LIVVI