Whipped in fiscal glory.
Mixed up, emotionally stale;
Like breadcrumbs scattered on a hot tin roof.
Four cats to paw:
Menacingly touching paper until scorched.
Left to my own devices
Leaping from trumped up barges
On a river of discontent
Filling a larder with the ricochet from rejected bullets
Sold for a purpose.
Crushed into a soluble escape mechanism:
Just wishing on lively lighthouse keepers.
Washed away, in waves of passing greetings.
Gesturing in poverties way;
Whilst living life with sequins that sparkle against pink plastered walls.
While the old lady knits
Two perfect jumpers in tandem
Released from prisms of light
Reflected on the tarnished mirror
Beacons lit to describe the neighbours assets
Too hard to resist the soft dressed mistress
And set in timeless motion
Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee 31th August 2015