Postsecret

This isn't my postsecret, 'cos lets be honest, it would hardly be anonymous if I posted it on here, but it certainly represents the bitter cynic I wish I could claim to be. I might post up a postsecret of my own on here later, if I can think of one I don't mind people I know finding out.

Festival

a picture-perfect slice of sky

hoves into view before dead eyes

still choked with soot our voices crack

our bones still broken

jaws still slack

our paper home survived the storm

more through will than luck

more style than form

more hope of finding clearer days

less chance of strolling the same strange ways

as night gives way to day's caress

and morning dew cleanses our breath

a picture perfect slice of sky

hoves into view before dead eyes

Its fun being pretentious.