When it doesn’t rain
when it doesn’t rain
in the dreary shades of
my city
or
in my stone-cold heart
I can hear the whispers of
a thousand dead souls -
their twisted hands
clawing on the brickwork
and inside my arteries,
rearing to come out and
unleash hell
but I tell them, Wait!
there’s still much beauty to
die for
for tulips bloom best on
the graves of the fallen
