November 19, 2014 by petrujviljoen
Flowers, not red,
sulking, all over the floor one
came to rest next to a previously peaceful stone,
having been there quite timely and, you know
Excisable beers arranged on the sinking table –
the hopeful radio danced, –
it was a shebeen
– the Irish night was late.
Heads drooping into tired cups, hands folded,
still around holding on.
How could you stare so? It’s not on.
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