grand theft depressed
Diaries and broken-open book bags
pages burning, torn and blowing in the wind
sprawled like paint on a canvas; thrown
hoping for the splash to make poetry
heard the wheels and smelt the searing
of flesh and hair, and smoking rubber
the tears on their cheeks were fast to dry
the brave young souls would stomp their backs
to douse the flesh
the shoes were late to shed the flame
the screams had gone
but weren’t yet echoes.
*My chest feels good today. Biscotti, Kafka and a mint chocolate shake partly funded by a friend. Work is going to drag on but at least I’ve got some good things on the mind. I need more sleep. Enjoy.
no more writing?