It always pulled on my withering soul from southern lands, the cord stretched from feelings of saddened hope, half hearted bodies of light.
Loss of self, delirious a abandonment, all the same. We wait, blue arms outstretched through the void of sense or some kind of clarity. However clarity is shaped by avoidance of self worship.
Still the houses stand tall, bricked and stoned, homely shadows cut and dance, and the chimneys scream their choked words.
Homely as it is, the disapproving looks make cold food of the take-away in your stomach, and the money in your name.
Your visage of prosperity. Crumble before your diamond necklace.
Your tea set that lies dormant in your darkest chambers.
The teasing melody of the poor child’s xylophone.
This is beautiful. You wrote this wonderfully, it certainly pulls at the heartstrings and speaks truth. Powerful! Good stuff man!
very well done…a feeling of a kind of desperate sadness