but through words,,do we truly die..
or like a manuscript,do we gently curl upwards.?
Like a well thumbed book of childhood past,
with broken spine,from whence we read it last.
and chucked upon the wall,in glee.
to gather dust,to become like a broken down toy
that no one seeks to gaze upon.
so on the shelf we remain forlorn……..
with only more words,,longer,more growed up ,
that basically say the same.
Janet and john were once love folks,
and so was Ibiza in Spain…
a poem of sheer gibberish,,rubyred,3 seconds ago :)