Without the summers heat, we've moved to a flat with a graveyard across the street.
Home has situated itself in a place where reality speaks plainly and the sun stays tucked away.
Stays inside, bent on the hopes that the torrential rain will sort everything out, bring the plants back to life.
They come dressed in black, with a somber hats that wilt to hide the mood and glasses that scowl reflections of the scene.
Just another afternoon in Dalkeith,
Our city at a safe distance to keep the season's spirit. It grows and breaths on thespians, on capitalism, on the dreams of seventeen's willing to work for three quid.
An exit from the depths of it,
My face gleams warpaint, my heart snipped from my sleeve. I arrive too late, as everyone has introduced themselves to the festivities.
How can I keep my composure?
Just another obstacle in the everyday retreat.
When one knows they should have stayed home to watch the mourners from the window and feel better about living.
Immobility as my middle name.
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