Straight Line

There’s a hate that calls me in
like a sinner to the sin
The boutique perfume
of a dying rose

There’s a sadness that it brings

a lonely pyre of offerings
left there, by the wretched
and the meek

The sweet hug a drink can wring
You’re a lone and desperate thing;
smiles that fall in-between
the ruins and the rains

A drink to you, my favourite friend
I never lie, I just pretend
A street mime walking,
a straight line, against the wind

© Christopher Raine