| They won't leave me alone.
These thoughts dressed in white. The colour of honey and seed upon the walls of drunkenness and wisdom whispering. They wont leave me green and crisp; road to Franschhoek, place of scattered ashes under the feet of the labourers, sweat and the cursing. Here I will blossom. It is here where the lovers of words can pick the fruit, the yeast and the lord, from the trees. Make me a part of nothing. Where no one can find me. Where Rest In peace will be a thunderous sound. |