It was that cold summer when I made
Christmas cards with the mentally ill,
waiting for Autumn to turn sun into snow
it was a priestess who placed the noose
around my neck and called it love
The love bites which turned
my skin to a blood bank
was never a script.
There can only be prayer with loving hands
Who told the women I laid
to send postcards from derelict hotels?
They never wrote ‘Wish You Were Here’
and how could I blame them?
this is sad dearest Rob once when I was in the mental ward I once cut fall leaves and wrote was special or what I was grateful for in the people I loved great write ❤️
Dear R,
Who said it? Thackeray? Love makes fools of us all. And that cold feeling when it doesn’t work. The closing stanza brilliantly sums up everything we endure after random attachments. Terrific writing. H🌷
Phew.
You have a way of putting your thoughts down in the most intimate and honest way.
Always a pleasure to read.
Powerfully penned, Ghosteen. Excellent write with lots of layers my friend. Awesome work. Appreciate you.
Damian