Raith

The diagnosis half true, you smell the Limes, on a tree-lined avenue, act like you know, the tests that bind, blowhard on your bones, hope holds you aloof, to knows if they’re right, except there's no clue, you won't be alone, in this cosy light, to break out the stones, you sit near the flue, it's not like a crime, for a fire to warm you, you have to keep going, each lonely night, when the kid's phone in, say you’ll be fine, drink leads to ruin, just a strange time, to ask if you're through?