Thursday, 29 April 2010


Because words wont matter
When there is no poetry
In being a man.
No hair to tame
Or spells to utter in the hour
Of the moon.

Your heart is a lonely crowd
Returning home
Dodging puddles
Walking with a door
Looking for walls.

I greet the friend I see
Wonder about the half he
Left behind in drawers, matchboxes
Beneath his bed
Playing with boundaries
Adorning masks.

Maybe he looks for faces
As he walks the streets alone
And takes the one he likes
Gives it a name
Calls it a home.

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