We are only the marks we leave on others
The brash attempts to leave ourselves unscarred
We are the voices inside the withered heads
Of those who grew out of their own
We are the names that were meant to be forgotten
Cast aside on weathered tombs of Latin capillaries

Left for the sudden slow burn of midnight tobacco-smokers
And childish delight of dawn’s first glimmer
Shadowing the rays of unfaithful vagabonds
Who know their home lies with the silver tongue
They tried to part with

We are the lovers that did not get to meet each other’s flesh
The hollow chant of sweet nothings never whispered
We are the beaded rays that only burden the painter’s muse
And carefully enchant the skin of peeled fruit never ripened
We are the founders of deciduous beings that have not learnt
The ways of plastic religion and pastel-coloured dreams

Left for the peace-makers to tie into knots from coiled wool
And rope that can only wrap around your tired feet
Earnestly whispering to you the savoury everything’s
You burnt candles for