Mind Tavern

These blades of grass Sitting in your pocket Digging through your lap, Rooting their scribbles with chokes Yet you missed the due to post Now you wait for the next train With a ticket you dug out the drain Throwing your pain Hoping the steel poles would stain. Your knees hurt, they're weak, The pregnant lady's in her sixth week, The baby won't ever know your name But you wrap your scars in tape Walk to the end of the rain Apologize to any who gets caught in them My mates said it's enough, be ashamed. The waves come hit your back Your cheek grazes the track The silt coming downstream Turns into the brown of your eyes And the holes in your umbrella Don't seem to capsize your heart. Nice soft focus, the blue skies up above, Rowing in the floods of every dying dove Every unlit campfire left in the grove Littering trash cans with discarded hope Balance is delicate, either end falls to eternity And at the very bottom, with old sleeves muddie

I'm walking through the mud, making sure that the nose of my shoe buries itself in a temporary grave and then uproots it, to leave a trail for you to find when I go missing. It's cold and some latent bug pleads with me not to holds its breath against the fireplace to cure my sick. And there it strikes a great revelation, that prayer exists because a God is still considerate, men justify their need to refuse. I wonder if I hold all your pictures at my throat because it burns whenever I look at the clouds and let out a sigh. What would happen if I stopped for a minute, let Mama's call at bay for a few more rings and ran to you? Nevertheless, I turn, surprise the old lady, at the shop and at home with my pain, sending my love downwind to another for another. Some ripe children run after the ball, past me. I was told to seek nursing from my bruises, darkened skin and scars. Now, I'm told that I'm allowed a few visits before the bees stop flocking to me anymore. The q