Same As Mine

Under the wanting city are the people who created it, under their shuffling feet are the souls searching for love, challenging the gods as they climb high above. Beneath the wanting city are the sewerage runs, the wastage passageways of the folk who carry guns. Doing it out of dependants, pretending they do it for fun, living in nervous pretence, mimic of tribal defense. The same as mine when I ware this face, the same as mine when I wanted embrace, the same as mine when I wanted you, searched for you but never ever found you. By Mark Shackleton