Roaming.. from the anchors

November 30, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you're born, your bitten with these phantom types of growling, growing cravings,

your soles always roaming.. from the anchors.

 

Your pulse.. wanting to ride them. Wanting to feed them. Wanting to bleed them.

Sometimes love.. gives you a warning,

tangency, to rev your only heart's life.

 

As your clock strays... ticking, underneath the track.

And ghosts of ages, pass you

    smiling

                   never looking back

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