Before December.

They cannot touch you in the sky,
Those things that made you cringe,
That you disliked. 

Shrill voices, suffocating smoke
coiling its way from crushed half cigarettes.
Poisoned words, cloaked.

Tottering girls on magic pills,
Blue inked poetry, smashed guitars asleep on pavements,
No, they never will.

No, their claws can't reach that high,
So I shall softly stroll a beach,
For neither can I.

Under the stars, suitably grieving,
Sand crunching underfoot, suitably dressed,
Suitably singing. 

Grey ash spewed out by a chlorined fountain,
Drowned in murky water. Or perhaps merely asleep,
On some immortal mountain.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i hope they wont reach us there :-I