Tuesday, 3 August 2010


In drink they wallow with no cause concern,
A bucket set beside them for their bile,
Collapsing where a circumstance adjourns
And situations wish for swift exile.

In sleep they find release is seldom found
Along the strong staccato leaps of faith
That land them in a tangle wood of ground
That bears no likeness to their Earthly place;

In which a flickered light bulb coruscates
Upon the dappled landscape of their lives,
And nothing can hopscotch from plate to plate
Or reconnect what crockery survives.

In life their mood shapes have obscured the lies,
Or shattered whilst unwrapping virgin truths,
And left their loved ones scrambling to compile
A case to hurl against their waterproofs.

In wretched weather floundering’s preferred
To laying still and capturing a charm,
Or listening to undesired words
From un-required shades of requiem.

In death we wish our efforts had bourne fruit,
Instead of reaping deeper in the soil,
But from the depths are found the sour roots
That grow into their version of turmoil.

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