A parable

Hell there must be a hundred thousand garrons pulling my fathers' will to take you back,
Treason, they shouted on the morrow,
Treason and no other shade of black,
In spite of my molten grace of doubt,
For the moment is the price the broken lover is to pay,
Fag in hand while rots in debt,
A feast of orange morning grey,
My drunken eye of curl and leather,
Wish you were it in all your glory,
This gilded song will go no further,
I ponder where now I shall sit,
Nights in the dark of mongrel fury,
Love me not any, break me on the sixth.


Summer of the rain in this town. Pouring coffee in the cold. Silly me — why should I warm meself when there's cold water awaiting in the shower? I say it all be to shake, to awake meself for I hate to be groggy all morning long, babbling while people stare back at my words. Do they get what I mean? If I ask, they nod and smile. Yet, there's empty in their eyes. Even when people be given the keys to the kingdom, they would take them gladly and hold them dear even though they have no idea what they are for.


Pointless, drivel bits of effort, taken for granted, from fathom, just because there's naught to do, for fancy, for glory, in fall or autumn, but never in spring, sing myself, warm breeze in the face, and you, you did, thrown love into the void.