Ordinary Things

When she softly violently
Scratches the calm skin of deception
And he is too puzzled too care very much
The wind still blows across empty wheat fields
And stars burn out in forgotten corners of the sky

But this is not a poem about such ordinary things

When she is being as cold as ice
Smiling like a naughty child
He feels a certain sense of vertigo
An inexplicable sense of loss – as if a dream
Comforting in its unreality
Has been traded for a stamp of approval

Must play the game
Must play the game

When lost souls play chicken
On dusty crumpled highways
Still the wind blows
And the blossoms tremble

But this is not a poem
About such ordinary things

Somewhere deep within
Is a knot of meaning
Tied tight around the neck
Of careless innocent joy

But this is not a poem
About such ordinary things

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