a solitude so grand.
purched on the leaves of peach
pure white with peanut shells
each their own on a ledge of knotted fur.
spurred on by grease
not by stealth nor hunger of a cat
nostalgia runs it\'s fingers through a breath of metaphors.
between two indifferent minds
each in turn spawn fossils
and pawn their non-existence
for a pocket-full of change.
and how the each and every man
clambers high on feet and hands
to the shadow of a hip
where stalks the mize of emptyness
pressed as flowers turning through a grave.
how still the burning wood stands tall and proud.
as sailors jumping ship
one-by-one we serve the coloured pebbles of a god
with his money in our eyes of blue and grey.
all things that sink
with a merry-rose twelve times the size as we.
let loose the words of he, immortal son.
there is never a good time to die.