The black death, you troubadour, songwriter
Writing to verse, cauterising your heart
Sit in bars, watching the optics pour
Harbingers of bad weather.

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I collect up the pieces of my former life

Photos, articles, trinkets and pictures,

that reverberate with a life once lived,

far away from where  I am now.

I was once a borderline, edging death.

A cathartic catchpole where I caught nothing but pain. 

Grazing on the  remnants of the past, I realise 

that I was set up to fail.

No one there to see the beating heart of kindness.

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