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john-edward-smallshawPoems
Waiting somewhere in the wings are things we never talk about, walk out on, things that don't sit comfortably, helplessly but not hopelessly we move along the lines of life where fate or indeed, fates wife can comfort us, we look to futures not yet set but can't see them, yet we look ahead. Blue eyes turn red, was it something that someone said? someone in the wings being fed your own ammunition? And over, over yonder hills after twenty seven thousand pills and countless shots of rotgut gin and years of counting mounting minutes or the treading of the mill, there's still someone waiting in the wings or something someone never brings, and somewhere I never talk about I keep on walking out.
0
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
The Sun stops at the border control
Waiting somewhere in the wings are things we never talk about, walk out on, things that don't sit comfortably, helplessly but not hopelessly we move along the lines of life where fate or indeed, fates wife can comfort us, we look to futures not yet set but can't see them, yet we look ahead. Blue eyes turn red, was it something that someone said? someone in the wings being fed your own ammunition? And over, over yonder hills after twenty seven thousand pills and countless shots of rotgut gin and years of counting mounting minutes or the treading of the mill, there's still someone waiting in the wings or something someone never brings, and somewhere I never talk about I keep on walking out.
john-edward-smallshaw
Written by
john-edward-smallshaw
70/English
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
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