I am no particular kind,

hinged in the retrospect of other movements.

Damaged, some may say, by the lack of my own peril.


I am left

in the evaporations –

where a bare foot meets a wooden floor,

peeling the press

of a child running into summer.


I am the hair

falling from your scalp, that convalescent

each day united

with a disappearing will.



a movement too close to say,

behind your eye,

and the need to stay silent – no charging wit,

no defeat.


I am falling down the rip of you,

untidy, unwanted,

unable to mop away.


There are no lines drawn,

no rhyme to measure with a kiss,

nor comb away with love  -

a form diseased with instability.


My head is eaten by an obtuse Hell,

the spindle,

I do not quite know.


I grab and grab,

seeing something coming

from the corner of my eye – incomplete,


a fickle crush.



◄ The Scarlet Prophecies Part One

Daisies ►


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