On the way home, in the midst of his evening bustle His hand griped at the lament buried inside his hearts muscle Wilted and torn he took off his blues and remained in the dress for which he was born. Pondering in the stillness of feeling lost and lovelorn. Like a gold fish witnessing…
And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust. Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed. Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning…
We All Yearn For Something
The human experience
A benign gallery of humanity
Pried from gripping flesh
This sculpted sand will not remain.
In love inside two worlds, I, we, both were trapped.
A communion derailed by the coming of the sun and the yawning of the moon.”