December 30, 2008


Lover of things,
won't you agree
how the winter could bring
the darkest spring?
With hell on your face,
dirt on the walls
in the back of the place,
you grew and complained.
Brother of three,
won't you believe,
that the ones in between,
are the ones that are blamed.
Of fickle faith,
cynics that seethe,
how their love is cursed,
makes you cursed to believe.
It's like marrow without bone.
To live in a land with no home.
Where your love is the darkest seed.
And there it crawls with the curs in the weeds.
Where had you been?
Not in the street, not in the yard.
Only once, I'll call off the dogs,
if you call off your guard.
Where had you gone?

Polaroid Sx70. Artistic Time Zero. ND Filter.

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