Once Bitten, Twice Burnt

I should be grateful right?

One for the mother and 'a dog' of a plight.

But I should be grateful, right?


These sins for the things that I crave.

It's the strings that are sent for a soul in remission.

Thoughtless decisions take shape with unconscious ease.

Whilst everyone sat in front of the television, bowls on laps that contain all the sugary pain of a low energy release.


Where's the intermission?


A Grandmother that inspired slow motioned blinds with a 'kind of blue.'

She saw through the curtain twitchers, 

fence snitching bastards.

Her values stick me like the pins with which she sewed our mittens.


Her husband, the opposite of a riot, quiet.

Like the fells that saw his spirit rise. 

The wood, could or should have 'beens' led to an 'almost' connection.

One that on closer inspection left me colder than the November day that heralded this arrival.

He was culturally 'smoke' and running, but his legs kept him stuck in London.

Was it the threat of an 'A' bomb, or just a world where he didn't belong?

An ancestral legacy.


We are from dirty streets, more likely to hear austerity versus poverty tweets than the whispers of sweet alternatives on a horse drawn breeze.

All of this brings me to a halt on knees.

Ain't no ones fault. 


It's just the way it is.

But I ain't finding smooth gratitude.

Or seeking the platitudes of those that judge the crutch that I beat myself about the head with.

I am a thinker, analyzer, self deprecating miser, how I crave for the mind of the peasant that I weren't.

Sometimes, but not always.

Once bitten, twice burnt.

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