Bob Dylan, yeah.
Nothing to do with Buckingham Palace... maybe a Crystal Palace,
in the distance - but that's not the point.
It's Sunday, who else would I quote?
Maybe Buckley, maybe Young, maybe Cohen...
I'll settle for Dylan, today.
He knows about this, and that.
Blue skies above,
the grass is comfortably green.
(No. The latter holds no drug connotation.)
The sun always seems to hold some sense of apathy,
on a Sunday.
Well, Sunday... the irony.
Actually, I was going to use the word complacency.
It's just, well,
the 'satisfaction' that is associated with such a term doesn't really roll down the street that easily.
Not today, anyway.
And that ruins everything.
In that case, it means nothing.
And that's just wonderful, truthfully.
"I stumbled to my feet.
I rode past destruction, in the ditches,
With the stitches still mending, 'neath a heart-shaped tattoo.
Renegade priests and treacherous young witches,
Were handing out the flowers that I'd given to you."
© Luke Daniel