Small waves flapping Washing the shore Lights on a string Above a parlour door Chip wrappers dancing to a wind that stirs It’s four in the morning I...
Aiming for your throat Biting at your breath Blinding both your eyes Walking you to death Coughing to your coffin Poison in your blood Bombs whistling past Bodies in dried mud
He smokes his pipe Next to a yellow light He can see his reflection On the brass ornament He reads an old tale From a tired book As he strokes the lines On a travelled face