by Laurence Wilkins28 Feb 2019
Poor mans grave, pour out to me if you
would like to.
it's disturbing, with no past to read;
their are no worn etchings for me to unravel
leaving your canvas blank for me to paint.
I know you're still in there, I can hear you whispering through the leaves rustling around you.
I haven't let you die, though it seems many others
It's pleasing to my ears and you have done more for me tonight, than many