My own company was guarded by the wistful and the window.
(Why did they even try with a joke to see?),
they would never believe.
Me,
lay stoic, on my back.
(Had they tore the veils from the last black cats?)
And as a heron stole a last look through my blood-wood-blinds.
I did remember.
My own company had been a few years in the making.
(The streets were no place to be),
I could not foresee.
Me,
lay stoic, on my back,
(With black cats running all around my backpack).
But as the heron turned and flew up towards the neon-clad-sky,
I did remember.
And now my own company seems bare:
Compared to the countries,
cleansed scenery,
its blah.