Full time

They chatter on insanely,
ghosts in my head
who blame me
I look out through
whitewashed eyes
rosy cheeks and
listen to the lies
they tell,

They sell me hell in
no deposit
no return
glass bottles,
which you cannot burn.

But I can see him up above
sending telegrams to me all
with hope and love and
he can shove them where
the sun don’t shine,

I hold on to my ghosts
they’re all mine.

At the final reckoning
it’ll be decided on
so why worry.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.