Bottled Moonshine

The sun had passed beneath the line.

It flared with colours, then was gone

leaving us with fading blues

as reminisces of better times.

A face looks down on us kindly,

benevolence made of cold grey rock.

We funnel its sickly primrose smiles

into printed pamphlets and prophecy.

Drinking our bottled moonshine

We dream of a new tommorrow.