Notes

Taste it, feel it

The bed is made

Music is playing

The people are late.

 

The scent of flower decaying,

The rotten rat in the garden.

A dead pulled out of a lake,

The smell of dried blood in your bed.

 

The rhythm built it up

Birds see the numbers we draw.

A relatively unknown sound,

Holding the key of life beyond.

 

They don’t pray when I’m not there

A circle of life doesn’t stop for the late.

In a vision or a flash what may it be?!

The turn is gone. I go to a church to pray.

(18/03/2004)

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