The fire in my mind is cooking up an empty dish
Replaying my favourite desolation clips
From when your back is being whipped
My graveyard lips wander silently as the darkness rifts
My cleaned out clothes are being ripped
As the wind is being stripped.
And the technological bluff and contemporary fix
Lifting painted eyelids that turn and split
That salt water wherever you were shipped.
The words you didn’t say are still crisp
And your purple heart is definitely mist.
But were you the one who left that geranium kiss
On Schindler’s drawn out, burning list?