I’ll drink this life.
Till the eye behind mine
goes unseen before the world.
The eye behind the mesh,
That webs and rots interlocked;
spirals base to sky-
follows round its circle-
afraid to meet its start.
Unafraid to blind the world.

A net hanging
above and tear greased,
Creaking rust in the wind.
To stop leaves grounding,
Touching us.
Iron protection,
From ourselves.
From each other.
from truth.

The unchosen.

For in the end:
We only meet and confide
in the drains of our waste.
In the shadows behind opaque windows,
With curtains drawn in case-
In case we see more
than just a shadow
but ourselves,
trimming roses.
To give to little girls.
To hand out in the street,
where their mothers
lie cornered and gripped
by mens broken frames
in promises unkept.
Ready for flowers,
to announce their death
and take rosy cheeks
from bent children’s hips.
That were young in smile
until bitten by this cold.
Said I’ll spin this world;
Till I see again.
Till I have an empty cup
of a life that’s full,
of scars and stung lips.
Full of blighting truth
and from the oak chest;
The heir of family deceit,
I’ll coat the dust and webs
from forefather cracked lenses.

I’ll watch the world
with an existence
in the freedom,
solely found within

I’ll see a boy.
Hiding under smearing red sheets,
Clutching at used shells.
Hoping and picturing every silhouette
on the horizon, his Father.
So he can collect one more shell,
To trick him into dreaming
of a night of no dreams.

While we are sat here,
Afraid to live ours.

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