Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Life without love is a hermit’s charade
There are hearts in a charade
That can never be lit
Whose shining patina is constantly on the blip?
With bricks, trowel and a spade
They’d build a concrete wall.
Never; allowing, their inner selves to glow or pall.
They’ll live alone and can’t be dissuade
It’s a hermit’s life for them, again.
Until, their final amen.
Their fatigue is to be buffeted
And unloved, but I’ll say it again…
Their hearts are living in a cold charade.
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