The finches balance on the line
Trilling hopefully
Ushering in a new day
I am cold
An old bouquet
Rusty and worn
Lying prone under the table cloth
If we are still enough we can magic a picnic
She wipes the grime from her fingers
I am bored of this checkmate dead end board game
Alice daubs the orange on her lips
It is sugary and sweet
There are too many hours left to work through
I wish for dreams on sleepless nights
They never come
I tried painting white fences and hammering in nails
Nothing drowns out the emptiness of being
The scrawny leftovers of day dangle on my lips
Too tired to speak
Too heavy to move
Pulse drumming in head
Unwanted
Unloved
Waiting for ever after
Signs to interpret
Wishes to honour
Like tassels on an old dress
We are a single line of ancestral thought
The finches balance on the line
Trilling hopefully
Ushering in a new day
I am cold.
