When I was younger I wore these clips in my hair,
Bright blue, butterfly clips, with silver detail,
But they never grasped the thin strands the way they should.
Looking at those photographs, I see a child staring back.
Years later, no more butterfly clips, the mirror
Portrays a face quite grey.
Just like the world, today.
There is ugly everywhere,
Pigeons perched on broken buildings,
Attempting to shelter from the rain, rain,
The rain stops, but soon enough, comes back again.
The post box is filling up,
A desperate need for money, but never mind,
We’ll find the answers in a spinning wheel.
The cry of addiction still isn’t enough.
And above, there’s a place on the rooftops
The sun cannot reach, and there,
The snow tries to melt but is frozen
Beneath a clock with numbers but no sign of hands.