entry picture

It is always better to go

At the end of life

Whilst windows are locked

And doors too

Then thousands of lakes have been removed

A thousand cups of coffee no longer drunk

And then your gaze exploded like a bonfire.

This is my fault

Some people are good at dissembling 

At twisting living words into false patterns:

That jump through hoops,

A woman with an eloquent neck,

Is lovely even in clumsiness,

Men with bloodied fists pursue her

Crawl into her ear  

Flatter her with twisted words

That curl up and flutter as if they are her pets

But really want to devour her

For me, her word remains a tender thing

She knows she will not live long

And is satisfied with these rare moments

Of living breathing authenticity

Rarely does this little life yield so much

Do not touch and certainly do not press heavily

Against her fragility,

She often dies of lascivious looks -

Her poor body twisted and  

Maltreated by death and dying

In this ugliest of worlds.




◄ Our revels now are ended

In search of.... ►


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