The sweetest disposition set free at the hands of poor judgement,
Sat upon a hill of past tense,
Winding thumbs as if to power a car engine,
Dragging heels through black sand and harsh sun.
Like the remains of our disheveled church,
All internal fibre twisted and wrenched,
Two steps backwards with eyes to the sky,
The simplicity of Jenga and the sweetness of a marshmallow.
Another rainy day in Liverpool,
A muse and inspiration washed out by each drop,
Take me back to my beach,
Nobody baby, but you and me.
Lobsters fighting claw to claw,
Unable to find peace amongst the rubble of a dirty tank,
Both hand picked and brought to boil,
If only things could have been different.
Fluttering eyelashes of an illegal blonde,
Crying out to feel that breeze once more,
All mistakes put down to an unfortunate circumstance,
Stood silently in a distorted glass cage.
Lets go round again,
Ding ding, first round knockout,
We're all entitled to a rematch,
That undisputed title worth the stars and more.
The tickle of a love fooled vinyl record,
Playing a song without falter,
Out-dated and derelict,
Trends are temporary but class is permanent.
Still sat unnervingly upon the hill,
Blissfully unaware the gates have been locked for a while,
Bolted shut with no keys present,
Pliers at the ready and get to work.
A cure to the disease,
It's been in circulation for what feels like years,
Left swept under the carpet,
At the hands of a stubborn brush.
A moment to grasp at floating debris,
A love as elusive as a bird in the hand,
A dream laced with ignorant hopelessness,
A laugh sent to dance just for old times sake.
