Maria

It’s not a love of rain, a bird on the wire, that you rage against, shuffling in the gloom, waiting by the fire, no one’s here to tell you, many come this way, pester you for hire, they ask and ask again, to do what you do, your eyes a hidden fire, that dance forever blue, an offering to be made, old cars burn out tyres, this is where you live, forever someone’s due, quench each waking desire, nothing else is true, such miracles they crave, with the tongues of liars, betrayed by flames, you tickle a wooden bier.