Tuesday

And so love is a word.

Forgotten and trampled.

Its easily given.

And easily dismantled.

Like a crowd on a train,

to a legless addict…

is the hope of a love,

that is pure and dramatic.

Our beating hearts move through the streets like cattle.

Another grey morning

And we're tied again to the saddle.

And when the cries of the broken feel so charismatic,

And the smell of desire,

Surrounds us like static..

We come from the north,

we come from the south,

we come from the depths.

All clutching a torch as we crawl..

As we crawl up the steps.

And graffiti it stains us.

And spirts sustain us..

Forgetting and burying,

The mornings we've wept.

And for all who are weary..

and deserving of rest..

for all who would kill,

to flirt with success.

For better or worse..

where democracy starts,

our love for eachother…

is breaking apart.

Its breaking apart.