Sunday, 12 December 2010

Old Maid

You've wilted in the wind like fog,
you are old leather hung over old bone,
desperate and desolate, unhappy alone.

Have you smoked a thousand cigarettes a day since I last saw you?
Have you stayed up into each night and slept through each day?
Has no one been here to feed you fresh carrots and give you fresh hay?
I'm sad that you're broken, its my fault you're broken...
at least that is what they'll say.

No comments:

Post a Comment