Constable rewritten.

Behind this rotten gate awaits

a familiar feeling from the depths

of losing one's youth

It is like a sort of repeating spiritual healing

Lifts you up and smacks you down hard to the filth of the ground

Walking on your toes towards a closed front door

Three knocks that would wake the dead inside one's mind

No black smoke escaping from the chimney high above your confused head

curtains closed, there is nobody home for a short warm welcome

no hearty meal to satisfy the lurking hunger inside of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ No title.

Piet Mondrian one. ►

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