January Ink

Wake to the opaque. Any second now, the gloom will wash away.

No heaven will open and eyes will be near blind from the profane sight.

Caught in the minor scale, from week to week the taste is metallic and stale.

Wake to the opaque. Any second now, the gloom will wash away.

No heaven will open and eyes will be near blind from the profane sight.

Caught in the minor scale, from week to week the taste is metallic and stale.

Wake to the opaque. Any second now, the gloom will wash away.

No heaven will open and eyes will be near blind from the profane sight.

Don’t fight the profane sight.

Moss on slates slide, their making banks within the curve.

I feel I’m embedded in that curve. Derelict, worthless, unfit for purpose.

Moss on slates slide, the tide ambushed the curve.

You can bathe within the weather to baptise your sins and pleasures into nothingness.

The day is wonderless. All I see pushing through the grey is a hush.

Into nothingness, into nothingness. All I see pushing through the grey is a hush.

Into nothingness, into nothingness. All I see pushing through the grey is a hush.

Wake to the opaque. Any second now, the gloom will wash away.