People of prose, rage and passion,
Longing for the agitation of a kiss,
Rather than the one of a sleepless murk.
People of sonnets, ruination and doting,
Longing for the warmth of a lover’s hand,
Rather than the one of a lit cigarette.
People of old tales, humdrums and solitude,
Longing for the purloined souls,
Rather than the ones enclosing them.
People of roves, luminosity and clamour,
Longing for the tranquility of a home,
Rather than the rush of cities.
And all you are is burnt up, and forgotten.