Shoved into a morning with the cold sigh
of someone rusted by responsibility
and its constraints,
There could be no way to silence
the spirited cluster of a station
angrily juvenile in its disquiet.
Cirrus hangs like salmon on a line,
flooded across the city and
half-sleeping, a landscape false
With no comparison to our
shitty bed east from here,
where nothing feels like work.
From: http://abstractmagazinetv.com/2018/06/01/for-by-joseph-carthey/
Date: 2018
By: Joseph Carthey (1996- )
From Troubles of The World 