In the lane where the rats go by

Is it still not time to

find peace amongst torned yellowed pages,

some sort of asylum in between depths of ink ?

The blackness of letters pressed against the paper in

sorrow,

mournfull imprisonment.

Not money, and no such thing as a car or a big house

can ever hold this world together.

The inner world

collapsing, the madness of that crossed vision,

the eyes searching for nowhere.

The outter world just goes on, the sun

coming out today after the rain, free

as we should be.