The street light in front of my house did not turn on,
There was a man walking out behind from behind the church,
My hands  stained with the night's illumination,
The air smells of the sea yet there were no waves,
And the chill was colder than usual,
I'm not sure what it was, really

I barely ever cry

Anymore

And I have been so happy

That I don't want to die

The guardian angel on the bus
wears starched white hair and long black coats,
smiles at me,
black lips and choker.
Small reminder of herself.

I always thought
the forest green
on the train to your house
was of such a nice colour.

Moonlight is spilt,
across my pillowcase.
And the darkened blue purple sky,
asks to be forgiven,
in the outlines of
my reminiscence
of which
it is
not.

A faint living memory,
like the pressed yellow flower,
on the sun dais

I have lost my words
in accordance to my mind,
and writing with my left hand
was always a talent of mine