Fringe

Alice combs her hair
She sweeps the fringe over tired eyes 
We are swirling up a storm
Mixing up dust in the cauldron of hate
The power struggle sighs through the bones of the flat
We miss yesterday
We miss clear
All the world is a mystery
A book we were meant to read
A star we were meant to catch
To live is to endure
We brood over that thought day and night
Alice combs her hair
She sweeps the fringe over tired eyes.