On this slope 100 years
Bone on Bone
Youth and power
Now becoming dust

I will not return
The rope is gone
Cable frayed
Froze in time

Mornings repeat
A breadcrumb trail
The days tick by
A dripping tap

Of the friends
Remains only me
Their memories
Caricatures in my wake

The money, the sex
Deception of love
Pomegranate lipstick
On a pink, pink pig

Laying lanquid
In a backwater
Off the mainstream
I hold my breath

I await the end
Looking through the rip
At the empty beyond

© 2015 Martin H Wilde

One thought on “Tired”

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