You're happy; you are this way,
Maybe the last lines are yours
I know you shouldda died yesterday
When the ink was ill and behind.
From the ones you left behind
It's this picture of colours
Mesmerising sunsets that shouldn't be. . .
They are not there at all.
Misteryes are unpackaged,
Factories are there sometimes.
If you want them,
Sometimes the manager says "Hi".
Particularly in winter.
The company knows it,
And anyway,
You didn't die,
Because you are still in Earth flirting with Angels.
They fall, you rise
And nobody knows how.
Mankind sits and dries
And nobody knows how. . .
And even in the falling,
All your reflections are done
And when your parents burnt the house
You knew inside was not merely coal,
But your flesh, soul and bones.
May the kindly ones treat you well
In the solitude of tomorrow's oceans.
13.2.07
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