Photo by Charles Tyler on Unsplash

We walk a steep and slippery way, 
Mixing senses in synaesthesia’s way,
It seems as if I am a chorus in a play 
We feel by measures, hidden from the eye;

Time is borrowed, blue days wasted, time slips by,
I walk along a steep and scattered way. 
Winter seeps me into sleep, now my soul flies, 
To compose this gist of an art, as time goes by,
Unborrowed from time or tide; 
I learn by going, where I have to go, inside. 

Dark holds imagination in thrall, 
Fear reverberates terror that,
I know, can paralyse mind and sense, 
Impulses frozen, like snow:
I wake to sleep and take my waking home with me... 

Some seek with all their senses stripped away 
Others watch as skies fade to a kipper-grey, 
An ever-changing melding of night and day. 
I seek to shake off this edifice of days,
Time falls away as the wise woman prays, 
She dreams to take her waking slow... 
Mingles prayers, with softly falling snow.

◄ At the ball

Genocide ►


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