Friday, 14 August 2015


The waking hours are salt packed
Dried out and conserved
Bittersweet like tears
That won't run for the reserved

The nights drawn out and endless
A charcoal riven streak
Colours your brain like black lung
Rigidly antique

The cycles becoming spirals
Dragging you despairingly down
You've been peddled an event horizon
An ill-fitting black hole gown

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