Sunday, 11 August 2013

I wrote my brother a note of naught last night.


It will never get to him, I remember, and the word is remuted. He and loved ones now on hodily.

Some of the detailed screme my horizon, acidic amidst the electric soup.
2 dayaways in a read hot bus with not a word in sight,

They are back, safe and secure but I am adrift, like the rift in my soul; sundered.

You will never read these words for they are cleared in the blue, blew.

When I held you, caressed you, held here you, I died against my agony, again. Thousands of miles awayed and yet the hourage was similar. Thousands of miles and the details are familiar.


Berate me for my denial of life, I live only for you.