In the hardening of an artery where the blood once flowed, eternity stares me in the face but between that place and here which the Devil holds dear is a sanctuary, a get away with it all before the last knockings call kind of place.
Hard walls and white walls, no satins, no lace just a safe kind of place that I like to call home.
Outclassed by being by-passed and the surgeons don’t know my name but the game is the thing and the living bring hope or so it’s said to the dying,
We’re not dead, we’re just trying it on for size, they say through the bloodshot of eyes that can’t see,
I see it all in the arterial wall
you can’t fool me,
© 2015, John Smallshaw.