Nothing to sweeten my darkest attempt
The fuel in the tank
Every awakening hour
Or two
Struck with bitterness
Shy of a burning desire
This vagabond hides in all that is impure
Flush the system
Of those who seldom require gratification
Friday afternoon
Just been paid
Am I meant to be at my happiest now
These things fade
Burnt tongues
Speak scolded sentences
This vagabond hides
In all that he’s sure
Wanting more
Then more
And now he’s impure
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Author:
Harry Atkinson (
Offline) - Published: May 10th, 2021 03:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
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