Sunday, 28 February 2016

Song to be Sung on the Occasion of a Beloved Plutocrat Entering the Room

Fair enough,
your presence may be
as welcome as a catafalque
in a school playground,
but sometimes,
when caught in the right light,
and sometimes,
when the whisky has yet to crash my mood
into a pile of rubble 
as I cling on to my artificial happiness, 
I see you as a withered plant,
incapable of blossom.

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