Iona

I'm sat here thinking, shuddering what I'd taught, this is not me, my lover is asking, what low life are chancers, I see her running to the sea, dancing on thorns, reading up on infamy, Oh it's useless I gasp, and twist on horns, what are the coming tasks, someone else’s here and free, struggling to be born, she grasps for my sympathy, could I work a pass, sitting shyly on a wall, waiting for the crash, wishing I were gone.