Limp with a sorrow full of hope;
A ghost hunting the walls of
Your home;
I want to wither in front of everyone
I have ever loved
And call it living;
Never let my hair grow
Past my shoulders;
I want to drink stale wine
On a Tuesday evening,
Together with the dying sun
Painted across his face
I want to see how the light hides
In between his worn out wrinkles;
A hide and seek of despair;
Painful reminder of how illegal
Our love is supposed to be;
Instead of muffled moans escaping
His bedroom on a Sunday night;
A kind of fatherly love
With his fingers down my throat;
Swallowing every complain I ever had
About my fathers absence and how
His stale old breath bore reminders
Of every time I went to sleep
Without a goodnight text
from the people I once shared
A bed with;
Said at my age, you burned with the strength
Of a thousand black stallions;
Said you cursed God himself
And ate out of his fruitful bowl of blessings,
Reckless you were like a drunken
Teenager at his peak of endurance;
Said you rode into the night
Like you had no soul to spare,
No love left to soil,
Said when the party is over,
We all end up alone;
When the moneys been spent
And the whiskey's been downed;
You said we all wake up alone,
With a strange bruise on your neck,
And an ache in your chest;
An unforgiving pain where your heart
Should have laid,
We all wake up alone
and left to make our bed
To lay in
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