I’m so lost I can barely see my toes out front in the garden digging your grave digging
for success and clamoring for a hungrier home
I am in this deceitful nest of baby owls being fed dead rabbit with bad grubs and
I just don’t like it.
I want to be free, somewhere, in the open fields of the British hillside
Of the mountains of New Zealand
Small islands of hope don’t give me much but it’s enough to island hop
You don’t always land in the right spot, though