In this restless time of doing nothing,
I look around my room and I quiz
The many deep ends of my heart.
They respond in numbness.
I can walk a lot of miles,
Beats drumming through my head.
Pushing me, driving me, forging me
Into what? Not what is me.
What I feel is not me, the desire
To be better, clean, moral and good.
The destructive force wants to hurt.
The force wants to weaken.
Out and away to Glasnevin someday.
These hands dont carry those forgotten
weights of dead. The dramatic the norm.
Oh those who folly love and death.
No comments:
Post a Comment