July
July sky is the colour of wheat slate.No one here cares about rockets over the Atlantic.
We have our own holes in the ground.
The castle is just broken lime and nettles now.
Richard II starved here, in the dark
while someone, somewhere else, was signing a paper
and calling it a new world.
Hold a piece of black root behind your teeth.
It doesn't taste like liberty,
but instead of clay,
and old water,
—the fact that tomorrow the shift starts at six.
Let them burn their money in the clouds.
The stone stays where it fell.
We are however, strewn everywhere.
Poetry by anonface
Read 17 times
Written on 2026-07-10 at 05:31
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