It’s only repetition,
alarm bell knocking on the door
of a cold Acland street.
the fork of life is lost
in singularity
and the night stabbed with a knife
not young any more.
principles are irrelevant—
regardless of their faith
some
people
always
feel
alone.
like an attitude
against the rules of life.
a lack of fortune exposed.
like a sadness on the face
of a merciful coin sleeping
in a hat.
©Tom Del Braco
tomislavpoetry 