The mirror of the  soul
a spectre of sepia
besides an unassuming smile.
How could we ever save ourselves
when the gold turns to silver
on parched lips we were led
to where dahlias  preside
in buckets of sand,
albeit temporal
How can we ever be said to boast?

Theres a victim acting
only in her curves has she sufficed.
The wrong man with fists
his avowed promise
you couldn't live without him,
despite being the third  party
th­e other woman you remain -
so across the Atlantic
barricading your dreams
acting for the first time with perfection
but the baggage  returns
the beaten path,
your  bed of self  destruction.

It could not be better than
to discover the music of the early 70s
It was so more than Prog
the singer songwriter hold his sway
under the tree cultivated by Bob
and his one time bandmates the Band,
gave a template back to basics
The Beatles shadow set the standards
in creativity.
before Glam rock lifted the lid,
leading a fallacious path into Punk Rock
and our music savious were truly shot.

The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund  moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.

Time for inroads
and watch me grow into a confession
to unhide.
There's room for you too,
grasping the infinity and movement
the gamble of the moon speaks,
luneria flowers to mark the winds cause
and learn words giving belief
wiser than us after all.

The thrush fly from up north
locomotives leave at 05.20 precisely,
they follow weeping  miners
with ballletic dreams
sipping  Burton ale.

The hat did not make the boy
they even wanted to select their prefered neighbours.
The dusty unused courtyard
long buried prayer books loitered.
If there was a God he was already made
in their own image,
insular  and grunt.
To surrender to their leaden aviary
the cage wouldn't need bars,
archaism would ablute the soul
the world outsiders
a plank walkway the only means.