12 months. 10 women. No friends.
One bird that got away,
One that is dead inside,
...but a bank account that whispers awake.
12 more I might count with you
As some men are born to live
and so others are to sigh.
One bird that got away,
One that is dead inside,
...but a bank account that whispers awake.
12 more I might count with you
As some men are born to live
and so others are to sigh.
Sleep, my money, dream
ReplyDeleteOf days of golden sunshine,
Of sand beneath my feet,
My lovers touch upon my cheek
I feed the meters of my days
I pay the toils of my tolls
And as my soul in torment seeps
I add, in silence, where the money sleeps