Peter

Sober enough to ask why, this way’s been chosen, before anything we can deny, more a sombre space, your mouth frozen, by tired phrases, sing your favourite lines, the time done with roses, made better when you try, wave all the great stations beyond a life hopeful, shrunken or awakened, even at the graveside, witness love's cloaking, clouds sail the sky, what settles on your face, neither time provokes, nor blows away the traces, a paper at your side, an accountant’s notebook, more a wish to verify, what truth gets spoken.