#2256

these days it is not the dead I fear

(my graveyard sleeps beneath ferns and moss and so do my ghosts)

but the living, those who have not yet had the decency to perish

(so I may bury them in the soft soil and be done)

who instead blunder blindly where they like

and crush the undergrowth in their wake

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#2255

I am my own shoulder devil
(do it, do it, do it)
my own shoulder angel
(you’ll regret it, you’ll regret it)
and these days I don’t much care what I choose
I’m always unhappy with the results