Jan

In the passage a light, for those who want to pray, her youngest suffers at night, some places are a sty, behind the lip of alley ways, where the freighters tie, she always looks for sighs, somewhere safe contained, away from terrible sights, her brain is fried, you'd expect that anyway, the way life entwines, all our stillness 'till we die, no one is to blame, if we dream of islands, wait for lamps to shine, the chapel's sweet gaze, a loving gentle fire, accepts our ancient flame.