Through which every night passes like millennium.
The last shop which sold coronations, I saw the ukulele man pull the shutter
Suddenly we all are afraid of death.
Smoke rises out of the chimney
So the tiny sparrows have learned to not go any closer,
You see unlike me
Unlike most of us
They do not bow down to familiar flames
I blame age for growing attachments.
All these excuses about money, rules
Taxes, brexit, Trump
They undertone my cry for not being able to see you ever.
I am afraid.
They called the woman in the attic mad
Yet the ukulele man still sings for her
She, every evening at five stops screaming to listen to him sing
About dried leaves
On which a brown and golden butterfly sits.
Overlooked, just like grief.
They call her Medusa
With black hair falling all over her face
Black eyes penetrating your desires
Man couldn’t have her
So they called her a witch.
Morning wakes up
I look at my feet
My toe bruised from yesterday’s game.
Where does love go on days like these?
They come to me.