Jan
30
a cold stream creeping
through stiff dead trees
dampening layers of earth
where the roots of all the plants lay
still breeze, caresses your bones
your dry skin a part of the atmosphere
the mood of death, waiting, silently
sitting on a noisy wooden chair in the
corner of a colourless room
arms folded, eyes fixed
waiting for you to put one foot in the grave
so it can suit you up in
a choker
a neck tie
a box to live in, box for life
escape and evade
you’ve gotta try, anyway
