Every time the town gets colder
There’s your hand on my shoulder,
What’s your plan,
My gloomy spirit?
Greyish trench’s the state we live in,
Dig him out
I scream at night,
People’re quite,
Despite their fright,
My will’s to live
And not to leave,
But now I ought to say,
Since people’re deaf,
And foully sleep,
I’ve got to get away...
7. April 2020
Around the mouthless folks
© Copyright: Марк Ветлов, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120041005891
Свидетельство о публикации №120041005891
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