Crossed a Morn

Get away from me,
is impossible.
Tyres and orange juice
make for ghosts.
Cheese and biscuits
and a smoke.
Coffee and Port
for throats.

The danger is closer to someone
who could hide away,
making money talk
through bragging.

What I want is my leather boots.
Dressed like I can’t be taken,
in some strength of cover.

I choose a life if I can.
You can flower me later,
when broken rains
and winds flow.

I need paper.


Author: leeethomas

Visual Artist, musician and writer from Australia. Interested in Love and the Mind.

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