I have people I love and write for,
none with whom to harmonize
out my pain in a roar -
am I a useless bingo prize?
All that's left is my own voice
either just tired or freshly awoken,
the chest one, sort of broken
by the night that was so nice.
Who knows if each layer,
its every card upon the table
will prove themselves later
and truth comes out of the cable.
Parted lips, a soft breath
stroking young chords
and we know what's underneath
a lord's fancy robes.
21/01/2018
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