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In The Gray Pale of Morning

In the gray pale of morning parading alive for all the gods to see,
We gather under the caressing rain, cold, piercing, like tear drops falling,

Wet streets unending, alley places, dark stoned poets of length and decree,
Gather we, at lampposts shining, exchanging our darker sense of the appalling,

Sacred, arrogant gods of the living and of the leaning crowd us in here - wet in our skin,
Listening, dripping dark tales out in lowly sorrowful bursts like glowing golden, given light,

We are appropriate to no one, from the ancient horseman who hungrily thirsts, yearning to begin,
To the conscripts on the fallen roads around, dirt merchants beating back endless night,

( The sacred gods rob spirit filled graves and in the fog of their shadows -
Give vision to the living. )

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Very nice, very nice indeed

Shel,

Thank ye so much. You're so very kind.

tommo / Ireland

Nice one Tom

Big Joe ( the bricky, )

Thanks so much, Big Joe. I appreciate it very much.

tommo / Ireland