That wooden cross…

Hung on it; that cross Hanged on it, out in the court yard wall of old fading paints and wall papers

So Everytime i heard the trumpet blow, I saw the skies open to blue shimmering lights, amidst the golden yellow sunshine of heralding twilight

His name was Blue, like an old dogged rugged dog, brought down but died good and blue

And like a rush, gushing memories flowed through my soul and heart, giving me palpitations and perspiration as i lived in the transient caustic reveries of the last moments beside you

This wooden cross keeps your smell and sound locked in and questions as to why the dark angel scaled through to take you in your room by us

Today the winds have blown and smells of blue and sounds of blue crept in strongly to remind me again how gloomy it felt when good old blue died so good and calm…

The graves crowded with bones and withered tissues, Lots of dark skin in dark holes at dark times

That wooden cross could have hanged seventy and three years without falling a day until today.


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