Saturday, 15 October 2016

The third of October

I'm unsure of the certainty,
Without guise with which to guide,
Or whether one is true, but certainly
one is abused and willing to hide.

I heard the torture throughout the years,
lies and the hurt; The pain and the tears.
I watched the stars shine bright,
as each moon passed its light.

You'd ride up tall, making sure
the truth wouldn't fall.
Your you was clearer and cleaned,
Sure to fool, but not foul. Neither he,
nor she, not them or I would be there to deny.


Why whisper for longer,
the works of a loner.
Heard through nothing but fallacy,
This slowly dying maleficent home.
This slowly dying magnificent hole.
The slow and dying of malice and woe.