Sift

I’m taking my habits to the Scottish highlands:

the best of me, the worst of me. 

I’ll sit on a moor in the rain.

I’ll call it home. 

Maybe I’ll sleep out there too

and the birds will wake me.

No-one will find me .

No-one will find me wanting.

And if no-one wants me, well, 

what of that?

Words. They’re the thing.

Forget this heart stuff. The lies it tells.

Words will do. And me, best bits

in the best order. Wanting very little.

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