where somehow some forgot their place,
and lost and sold the plot
(the Spirit shown the door,
still pain creaking in their stoic joists)
retreat, rebrand and resurrect:
your carpet warehouse,
your local Indian restaurant,
a night out at the theatre,
or the perfect home
among the graves,
a place to lay your weary head.
souls stop to sip this new communion,
generations mingling in the ether,
their trapped psalms jammed into the brick-work,
their spoken blessings looping onto shoppers,
diners, leisure lovers
in these gifted buildings,
sent to the wind,
to be transformed again,
when Spirit, once more welcome,
Wearing wrap-around seduction. A blindfold angel in black. Mirrors to glimpse a fine troubled prince? Dressed-up pathway to the soul ...
and ‘good evening’ you say, with your will to encapsulate a world in two simple words. you drag me to your angle, box up...
Billions slip along its bullion branches sliding towards the grasping, greedy, greasy palms, of the high/ mighty, fake empty pockets w...