not even the dream
of a dreaming butterfly...
voices whisper
here
Two forty, one ten?
oh dear, magic smoke escapes!
It must be
Monday.
Pleasant sunset, watches
the trains taking me further
away from
your arms.
Dark winter cyclist
No lights! Skulking in gutter.
Bold, try
seppuku.
Tell them Goth is dead.
But consider us as art,
winter seen in
spring.
