Piles of pockets torn;
Crushing crest fallen penance
Because we dreamed of picked out harmonies
Charming trees that whistle in the wind:
Tunes with meaning.
Screaming in torrents of rain splashing
Crashing in broken gutters; seems okay to miss appointments.
Strength of clasped veins throbbing
Sobbing into ashtrays
Fallen guard releases border lines cases
Chases the wagon in lace torn dresses
Messes with the senses.
Immense as it is
As high as the tree is planted
Enchanted by the pale green misty pleasure
A measure of the times that could be if only
We stopped complaining:
Chaining ourselves to the present past moment.
No hope for stragglers
The ones with the will of a loner
Become atoned to resting
Sleep in tandem
Together rather than apart
May 2nd 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright