‘Matchstick Souls’

The whisper of bitter wind and sticking men waddling
by the tower that breathes the smoke that sticks to you.

Lovers pocket each others hands and lay their dreamy heads
on shoulders and scruffy dogs scrape along the crackling ground.

Sticking men; men with no souls but more existence
than you’ll ever know look like matchsticks, sticks, twigs.

This bleakness, this pale sky with these towering
chimneys are just the limit for those stoney-eyed souls.

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