It dropped off that smile.
It dropped it off with the worry and reason
And it came home late for supper;
Splashing in the cold porridge,
Amongst the dusty skeletons who cooked it.
It roasted gruel in that pot.
The dining room, waiting in silence
Praying to the skewered crucifix
And the dreary replica of a false God,
Laughing pages and pages
At verses read in quiet, bellowed faith.
But the logic of it all reads like this ink.
It drips down the page; soaking in your eyes
And whispering through your lips,
Only saying what you say.
Meaning what I mean.
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