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Window's graze, my face against the wind,
Little cuts that you cant see;
Together they make up the whole of me.
Violin's sing a birthday song
For someone else, always someone else.
And I walk these streets after dusk,
Head slumped to one side, and every house
They are all dying, sometime, on their own.
Petals kiss the air, insects crawling
Everywhere, laid down and baked in the sun
Like dead grass. When I was younger
I said and saw many things, that
No one else did; I can't complete
A story any time - look, the concrete
Blocks, the laural hedge, the frozen water,
Tears kissing wet sand, snakes that bite
The air between my fingers
There must be reasons that even today
My happiness rests upon such tender balances
The sky when grey looks more mature, more suited
To memory. And a moment of love
That wasn't really anything
Two bottles of port at the side
Of the old radar station and dirt
In your hair
What can it mean? What could it mean?
And if it doesn't mean nothing
Then what does it mean?
__________________
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."
The Gospel of Thomas
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