For want of a mason the wall was lost, but better him than me I�d say.

 

Away we rot in beds we've made for want of a better position. Our

flesh fusing to our sheets we languish awkward in the breeze ushered

in by the broken window of yesterdays dreams. Lying silently, eyes

bloodshot and gaping we stare at the blackness above and sweat to

the purring mantra of imminent time. The sky is falling like a ton of

God’s best bricks and we, groggy and delirious, only think of what

mortar might make of this new eager friend.