Fleeced by shaven heads; beating drums, pumping hearts.
Apart from chilled skin; frayed cloth flaps in the wind,
Skinned alive like burning caverns: cracked open by the heat.
Meet the bear; tearing flesh from bones.
Stones thrown to capture attention
Not to mention the cat calls from the scaffold.
Get me down they say; or are they gasping for air
Not caring for heights myself I stand in awe
Thrashing about, like a stolen building.
Stashing the loot in a barmaids clothing
Boots that zip up on the side
Not laces like my beaten up shoes
What a to do that would turn out to be.
Churned up like a mixed up salad; with dressing to ease the pain
No chains holding me down
How the arms are aching
From the beating
Retreating until falling backwards onto my side
Collide with reason
Forget the logic
Bury the past in feathered pillows
October 7th 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright