his life.
puts a polish on the rotten
apple
that it is.
he turns the fruit
around
to hide the dying
spot of
brown.
the bruise when he
fell from
his imaginary castle
in the clouds.
he whistles
in the dark, spins
a good yarn
as he
dances around the whys,
the hows.
the lies.
it's not
all wine and roses
anymore,
you can
see the sorrow in his
eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment