Bare

Oooooh.

Be
the
support that keeps the towers together.

Sick of
watering the fields, and milking the cows.

Wearing heavy robes, on a sequence.

Let's meet at the vestibule, (warmth) . The knightage left sooner than expected.

One thousand and thirty-three bats flew out of the caves and into the town.

It's the core

speaking.

We're callow to this.

Until now,

I had never realized how the city looks at night.
Sensuous mist breathes faithfully whilst churches ring their bells out,
leather-people walk, some sleep in benches.
Recent rain layed on the road. And the smell lingered.

Pinetrees outside churches and abandoned buildings, and a choir singing afar, with a faint saxo leading the way.

Looks that denote desire, or affection. A slippage would cause commotion, and I'm not sure why because the rode leaks grey, grainy blisters, and the uncertainty from behind all of us and from the sides is enough to make blood race. Forth.

Inhumane, dogs starving in a mundane haze.
Wind in trees, and now and then cars lightning the rode.

Ominous moths in streetlamps staring.

And then, siiiiiiilence
only
footsteps
paving
the - road

How is this any different than what you consider heartsease?

It was called.

Who knows because it's not cold anymore and although it's not the same weather, it is the same place indeed, and last time you were seen here you were leaving, handful, and maybe not planning a comeback.

Could we know?

It's probably been enough since last time, maybe, and between roads, clowns, parades, carnivals and masquerades and whatnot, the place hasn't changed much rather has had a slight twist, maybe, people-wise.

Can we care?

No.
We long for a comeback that doesn't involve fake masks, or dancing.
Sure. For it to be like it used to be, early Saturdays on boats that sail. Fishing and bringing food home.

Did that ever happened?

It's as if we were looking at ourselves through a mirror.

With a dead end.

Really, child.

Strife

There isn't money involved, whatsoever.

I claim to know what happens
when you laugh in between overdone jokes,
when strings and strings softly develop(golden ones)rising up and shooting rapidly

when affected by rain or gloomy weather, touching ice or cracking wood.
when poetry smells the same again, and you're being reminded of metal, bodily wires of carnage
that maybe rip on top,
and they long and crawl beneath pores of self-pity.

when unfriendly teeth meet the eye,
and eyes unfold, bowing.

folks assume, baaaad.

skin is not closed still but the roots bring up the truth that opens earth
and land, stirs.

With discretion

quite.


behind masks, of future.
or backwards over the sea, where the core is at.

silver.


Death comes with winter, and turns where the corner offers battered feathers of vultures.
Why, instead, don't you land far from here
where the raw meat thrives in pleasure

We don't deserve this.

They do.



Maybe it's selfish of me,
Or maybe I haven't figured out people yet.

I do not know the answers either.
May that be a statement.