Saturday, June 20, 2015


  I was into wiping young tears,
it's all just dust now.

Golden dust loosely sitting on broken dreams,
under it some desires still slither, they raise their head
making a jumble of question marks,

Asking what about us, wouldn't you let us loose?
So if you hold our tails we would raise you up into the sky.

Black dust on the lid of a decaying trunk
marked 'things I did wrong'
I would wipe it clean but
the memories
they are bashing there heads on the lid
making pin pricks,
you bleed inside just by touching the surface

A moon of my virtues hides behind clouds of swirling,
powdery remains of dead

I live way down there.