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Feb 2015
The Cut.
The Cold.
The feel of Steel.
The sharpness,
that keeps it all real.
The feelings,
pulsing through your veins,
as you try to smile in vain.

The Love.
The Hate.
The need for words.
The hope,
that everything is pure.
The darkness
curtaining the light,
as the day gives way to night.

The Morn.
The Dawn.
The waking soul.
Shaking,
falling through the floor.
The path,
the one, that leads you home,
will always be, the one you own.
Peter Cullen
Written by
Peter Cullen  Clane Co.Kildare Ireland
(Clane Co.Kildare Ireland)   
416
   Janine and ---
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