This house is cold, but Deirdre’s been writing and we’ve a blanket on.
The roads are full of sleeping families, while the churches lay empty
We couldn’t soil their divinity now could we?
Theres a fault in my thoughts. Makes me think i’s’ when ‘is not’
Glazed as donuts, cold as so whats
Death and life
I can’t see a bright side. The evasive silver line. Just a cloud.