Unstable earth on Cromwell Road
that cut the line I once had towed
where preachers spoke in secret code
of better days and lesser loads.
A bloodless heart for such endeavours
once better done by dead whoevers
tied by a vein that oneday severs
forever promised and rendered nevers
Life is death in about forty hours
A slave to an office with deadly powers.
So come to my grave with forty flowers,
take my resignation, and suck on it's sours.
Comments
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dead endeavours
I really like this -- it reminds me of an e.e. cummings poem, Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town. I am perplexed by the forty hours but, even though I don't understand it completely, I like the feeling it gives me. -
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Dear Judy, I'm obviously very flattered, thankyou! About forty hours, it's related a working week
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best wishes.
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