If I could tell what the my pity stricken face is saying right now, your glance would not be worthy. My Five thirty passes like a motionless train, yours in fact passes as a twelve thirty eloping divorce. Quick and not in the least bit subtle, thinking in ones own thoughts, imposing into possessions.
Perhaps you're at one with the crimson sofa, or the sterile walls which surround not the eyes, always the you's.
Hometowns shattered. You buildings there, you cross, you pressure stricken undignified children. Fall into this crack of these roots, this possessive mother. Claw your way from seam to seam, oh honey you've never looked so tragic.
This sickness plays again, like a classic you've heard a thousand times before ' Oh darling please believe me, I'll never do you no harm'. Today we
mix our 'o's and our 't's.. The 'l' always came too soon, the 't' not soon enough, oh, ay...
You are 'too late'.
No comments:
Post a Comment