Up up imaginings turn hollow in the next day now, night succumbs the wanting soul, life long of longing to only receive a hint, hurled away, awry left to simple sighs -
glad not to be burdened with the feline nine, one and only is enough lonely for this soul -
so sad I sit a mute, allow speculation to run wide and aside whilst without a word I promise to no longer be lied -
YEA I’m ridden, sick, bent on the knee plunge hands to pavement tear up the asphalt and offer it to hell for the heavens have given up -
yet even they won’t accept this forgotten soul, so instead just keep digging my own six feet deep hole.
Hand drawing printed in the darkroom on photographic paper.