Sunday, 26 July 2015


 The bedroom is now our tomb

With only dusty sunlight

And debris of days of sex

And our bodies,

Forever tangled

We live like half lives

With eyes only for each other,

As the rest of our lives die.


For our souls were misshapen

We believe that each other

Can cure us

So we need not make the journey

To make ourselves complete.


We creep out to see if it could work

In real life,

If this could be the sort of love

That may hold hands

And last until

We get old, ugly and fall apart.


We bolt back to our tomb

Where we may die to the world

And only have each other

For while we try to cure ourselves

Our sweet lust and obsession

Only makes us sicker.



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