Residence
- Tudor Etchells / Photography Editor
- Oct 28, 2015
- 1 min read

Maternity doesn’t think as it
shrinks
from your passion
fruits of woman gives us essence.

Amiss you falter
your presence I don’t know.
Why those bricks
still sing
and praise
and
laugh

when the shit
evaporates into throats,
that choke on life repossessed

that glamour
now
corrupt in recliner reset.

As bottles lay along whitewood
in cheers,
ecstasy that bites

only when four elms chase
after, does a being
create

conversation trails blessed
as the intended route

tangent then crumbles
on all fours reaching;
a gasp for love
wrapped now in a parched pattern.