Strangled thoughts inside and out,

Lost chances rust in lonely sidings.

 

Tailor driven across hope

buried deep under steelworks

strangled in lies

 

hope made of granite

and reinforced steel.

 

The tosser on the dance floor

Throw him into an IT grave.

Once you get used to something, your

imagination loses its mind, use your

imagination and look at something new.

 

My name is Mildred, a typo I will not feed

in-between has great importance.

She may well be shallow

but, you know,

she may very well be happy.

 

Love fails. Hope fails. Words remain.

Gloomy days awash with inspiration and purple poo.