My pockets full of skeletons are rattling my bones​
roaming endless hallways among carefully hidden doors​
to rooms guarded by men with battle wounds from time at war alone
Where the future fights the past to control what the present is for​

If there’s beauty in things broken, welcome to Paradise​

My pockets full of skeleton keys are rattling to the floor
to rooms concealed by trust revealed by truths written in code​
while truth is a lie exposed beyond these impervious secret doors
Pocket full of keys and still a dream of a road that leads to home​
​
On an isolated island
Streets paved with dreams forgotten
Holding houses built on backs of
ghosts guilty they cannot die​
small town lights flicker over a river
of lies down to the bottom ​
Masks concealing faces of those
who would rather kill than cry​

If there’s beauty in things broken, welcome, welcome to Paradise

©2020 by Angela Mary Pope

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