Backstreet Doors

backstreet doors on the floors
of the lives below,

oh no.

popcorn-ceiling falls
from the seismic calls...

so low.

and you could always make a choice;
turn your passion to a mess of noise;
singing captured in your tone of voice;

burning secrets with your graceful poise.

cat may cry in the light
of the autumn day,

I say.

hats off fly in the right
of the dust of grey

ballet

and you could always step aside;
turn your fashion to a different light;
singing rapture in the coming tide;

burning secrets with in whom you confide.


[17:04|16.8.012] ©c.thomas.carter