Hanging in stains, flecked with golden thread.
Dead to the world, a tapping
A symbol of time!
Chiming, a drop in the ocean
A notion frozen in crystals of tears.
Slam; the tender, sword swallowing waitress,
In torn dress struggling to get home.
A comb in her hair for the sake of a mess in the courtyard
Dogs bark; the sound echoes in the heel of my shoe
The wind carves clouds into faces
The walls grow hands to strangle ideas out of the corners of the shattered mind
Find out that life is given to those who are walking in broken sections
Sold to the man with the millions
As if it makes a difference
When the bones are dust
Just a scream at the outside
No use to the sponge like paper covering up the freshly baked cake
For the sake of a birthday; candles flicker in mourning
For air sucked from jeopardy
A remedy for the sick
Bowled over by meaningless dribble
Gusts of wind extend the option
Wait until tomorrow
February 18th 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright