No matter how we invent this writing malarkey
Or, how, precisely, we feel about it,
There is a wonder within our hearts,
And a good hiding of our souls;
So much more than a mirror, wi-fi
mumbling, incessantly,
there’s a story to be told, a tale told by an idiot”
But all we hear is:
‘fear poverty, terrorist filth  fear anguish, rope, anger, death, grief: time diminishes, the pale horseman.’
Untold stories encircle us still
as we try to live secretly thrillingly
stories hoard themselves in our imagination
which we dole out to ourselves (sparinngly)
when frightened or bored
as a way to lift us into
A new mode of travel down
Lines and Lanes of unadopted roads
Leading us to a borderland
Of ruin that we investigate,
At our peril and  in our own time:
poems, novels, plays, opera, ballet, painting:                  let's bring these back to the multi-storey flats or else
help us to see
differently:
high windows, yes, but stained glass too,
stained, with all that love can do.