World full of people

I watch the people,
they touch and stride and natter-
dressing for dreams,
working to live another day as themselves.
Currents pass through me,
A canyon of jealousy, perplexed happiness
cast from hope.
People are bent and broken,
I trudge futility
they glide in living.
The deepest hunger is for expression
of yours again, I’d recognise its face;
of my own, blindly portrayed,
of his, I can think of none,
yet its where I home.
In love with an expression I used to know,
immortalised in moments,
but immortality is just existence.
Perhaps I don’t love at all,
one in comfort,
one in contortion.

,,

Fog is Screaming,
War is ambling,
deaf eyes open
but do not speak.

Social Equinox
forming my collection of “A fleeting thought, A fleeting though, See how they run”
Written on a train- as is my life :)

… - claiming I was famous and inventing historical facts to strangers whilst I wait for the bus

Eld

Instead of thinking about how aging is the slow decay into death with wrinkles and media ugliness (not to mention the sheer fear of what actually happens to bosoms- I’m petrified) I have decided to think about these facts instead:
-On a cold winters day wetting yourself to keep warm will be perfectly acceptable
-Will I have an adorably shrill comical old lady voice or will it will be husky and fabulous?
-Will I hit people with my walking stick or with my handbag?
-Rainbow eyeshadow to go the bank at 9am on a Friday? why yes it does not matter my complexion I am old and fun and I’m going to claim it is what classy girls did in my day.
-When someone is boring  I will simply say “stop talking now you are boring me” 
-GET OUT OF YOUR SEAT YOUNG MAN I AM OLD!
-Going to concerts with fellow oldies and screaming “TURN IT DOWN! GOOD LORD TURN IT DOWN”
- Grabbing relatives to sing and dance with and not being refused
- Saying jokes that old people shouldnt say to shock the youngens
- Going into supermarkets and claiming I am a ghost

Oh the list goes on!

Desolation

The dead cast stares to no one,
and we drift sideless to one another.
The dead communicate in silent decay
I beg distance in emptiness.
A poverty of love.
The dead don’t care for reflections
yet I seek ours in every passing cascade.
In famine of a face,
lay me to rest in a mournless place.
lay me rest in a kindred desolation.
The world over, wanting.

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