Roughly as poetic as a bag of smashed arseholes.







Scribble back.


Saturday, 6 November 2010

4. Hope

This is one for you
That one you’ll never know
Emily, the tide is here
We’re sliding, softly, slow

Because

 I can always see your face
Upon a million shattered stars
It’s disproportionate, unfortunate
That you are who you are

But as I told you that night
I am not your ghost
Inside this bitter body
Is not past, spiralled in smoke

So I can barely stop hoping
Despite indiscretions
That the tokens you give me
Are of a deeper affection
And that eventually, exceptionally
The sign of progression


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