Freya

Is it me all alone, his turn now to bleed, turn off that useless phone, lay open the ghosts, from the gate they scream, don't bring them home , why wail in broken tones sat on bar stools seats, you never could throw stones, do you need a trombone, to accompany your creed, when your creation's done, gone gone, like your unruly needs, does it help moving on, with me as your pheromone, in this unlit scene, a cache of unread tomes, to polish my dreams ?