by Nick Gisburne
The shivers of the children in the dark
Condemned by cold authority to cry
Are founded in an innocent remark
To one they know as mother, hazy, high
She wanders, without feeling or regret
Dismissive of the sickness in her soul
A featureless, imaginary pet
Relaxes on the clutch of guns she stole
Insanity releases her from pain
Alive, she kisses strangers on the street
But sitting, somehow, in a random train
Her flawless flash of clarity is sweet
She wonders: will the journey take her south?
And gambles, with a pistol in her mouth
