sliding sounds

the ghosts they took away our childs.

we failed to respect the night.

the cement covered who knows what.

and we shed our layers of white

mild we weren’t, wild we were, tipsy with life, all so bizzy.

respecters of no one more than ourselves, our raking of grape make us dizzy.

we lusted for lusties, we made up our beds, we ate third helpings on our pillows

and when the ghosts of our childrens they fled, we heard them rake hands on the willows

and now the critters we milled near our mills have wasted the grounds where we married

“decluttered” we muttered, as our mold toast we buttered, and we scratched on our heads we had buried.

and now just a song, with the swing chains of rust, plays out in the night where we don’t sleep

“remember your souls, and remember your trusts”, for not shallow the dark, but quite deep!