The Distaste

Dry pens and cold feet
“That’s what you get for using me”
Still on the outskirts of town
With the homeland out of reach
I’m thinking I might as well teach

You tell me practise what you preach
Don’t go catching the run-around
Meeting ends you can’t see
And you wonder why I barely speak,
I’m speechless, she sees

Baby all I want is to free
Heal and reform
A corruption of hierarchy
Three thousand years profound

And we’ve lost the middle ground
Within your autumn malaise
I find myself soon leaving town
Capturing the beauty that surrounds
Simple pleasures frivolously adored
Picked flowers and loose ends
Tied; can you yet decide?

How simple simplicity can be
When you lie here next to me
With pens dry to memories deep
And thoughts grown so fickle,
Cheap?

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