In the corner of a room sits a figure,
her shaking hands cover her ears,
her eyes buried into her cold naked knees,
so wrapped inside her terror
unaware of the clothing hanging off her as though
caught by the thorns of a rose,

she captures a comfort, a smell on
her flesh, as the tears awaken a scent of her past,
memories of childhood, wet salty skin.
once fear preceded comfort,
now it is alone.
her apprehension is torture,
excitement becomes anxiety
and surprise, a rude realisation of mortality.

But its OK it was just a fire work
a f....ng firework!!!



bang