Money is as innocent as the Sun (Part 2)

An odious sound like smell, breaking the surface of the water,

bloated niece, floating cousins, sister, grasping mother, clasping daughter,

in water, wishing water, like dust to dust,

water pulled wish bones, like the glimmer to hope, between the jolt and the

judder at the end of a rope, the fingers entwined, are holding,

love defying water heaving water so heavy so heavy with it’s obligation,

to do the bidding of the sun, sacrifices to our star, not just those cut throat temples, life’s blood flowing like a spar, or those to be commemorated, those

generations, generations to come, no, no our sacrifices to that star,

have begun, their great unfolding, but these hands, these hands are holding,

the fingers are entwined, though, not accompanying a prayer,

no, they haven’t got one, but, both below to a different pair,

of which the smaller hand, like a last breath that will not be taken,

is holding closed that curtain, mud churned,

behind which its short life is passing,

cradled by arms, that are lost in the charms, of a life,

held through those long fretful nights of ridiculous assurances sought,

that the sleep of the innocent, is, naught, more nor less than sleep,

to be someone’s to keep, supporting the balancing on one tip toe,

ankle deep, in bubble bath, ‘if you don’t hold my hand, we’ll never get

across this road, and we’ll miss the bus, the party won’t wait for you to start’,

what a face, little noses were made for bubble bath?,

as a dogs on a lead comes on to your path, in the shade of that precaution,

taken, maybe there’s a sense held, held in the chill of that shade,

a sense of those wishes not made, of thought, bones snagged caught,

in a mind being torn to pieces by hope, distraught,

hooded by water that small face to distort,

the holding in these hands a refusal to divulge, in a deluge, of water,

water pouring like torture, like torture, consigned, to a blind, spot, just a piece of mind, tied, a forget me knot, tied, for the peace of mind of the haves and the have got,

thats us lot, so, when waiting to cross a busy road, do take care,

in that vigilance, there maybe a semblance, there, of that between you, that small hand you hold, and those fingers entwined, as old, and as blind, as your love, older, uncannily bolder, the terror pulled wish bones,

in water wishing water like dust to dust, the sun has got his hat on, for the parade, of the returning, from our burning, to the earth’s trust,

held by love, yes, these hands are held by love,

but, it is the hands that are holding,

with love defying, you, me, this every no one,

fit for purpose terror blind, mist, capitalist, jamboree,

this not me, this just me,

the hands … the fingers, and this contumacious love; parting,

not letting go, no, but not holding,

like autumn leaves in winter puddles these fingers are unfolding,

fingers are …

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