The fresh scent of spring-time swirls through the air,
Muted by the burnt smell of cigarettes,
Held in the lips of those who never care,
Raving 'bout nights so easy to forget.
Ash falls on the my lap and then burns the grass,
Take one breath inwards and London's burning.
April seconds take much longer to pass,
Underneath these humble feet earth is turning,
Cracked paper screams from the rack to CHANGE!
They say everything is turning to dust,
Look into their eyes you will see no pain,
Filled with pleasures of money, greed and lust.
Instead I stare and admire, the humble daffodil,
They grew late this year and are silent still.
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