695.
Everyone’s living
In dramas we did not make.
I choose the blank page.
695.
Everyone’s living
In dramas we did not make.
I choose the blank page.
Throughout it all
We lived and died,
And now we’re here
We have survived.
Whatever happened
For all time?
The endless wave is still but one,
The time we gave
Forgotten songs;
I’ll never be so woebegone
As those days dried
In solitary confinement,
As a soul disembarked
Bound and dumbfounded
In the moors of my lungs.
Outside a ragtag raucousness
Of seagulls
Signalling new reasons,
How I rode on the back
Of an alligator’s crest
With ivory hands
And gloves of ivy,
How I rode on the back
Of a humble turtle,
Nothing then deemed
Insurmountable hurdles
As the turf reforming before me
When I ruminate
On now, and then.
694.
Dim white-winter Sun,
I remember the deep snows
Of Alsace-Lorraine.
693.
Ostensibly, I
Am walking my dog, but my
Dog is walking me.
692.
January fog.
A canine is constantly
Pacing long-lawn frost.
691.
Louis Felipe,
Merlot Lot 18, I drank
The Wines of Chile.
690.
Even the muddiest
Up-dug, bramble-bogged garden
Is made pure by frost.
The past is a lonely huntsman
Walking on shards of ice,
Those sharper endings present,
How winter ways entice.
I found a dampening cabin
Beyond that gated path;
I couldn’t explain what happened;
I could not find a start.
But whatever you might imagine,
The truth would bruise your heart,
The curtains dank in ambers,
Shelves all empty and dark.
A sign above the doorway,
Inscriptions fading in moss,
I read my name spelt backwards
And woke into my loss.
689.
Sunsets never set;
It’s just perspective. Sunrise,
You are just the same.
688.
Supermarket queue;
My two is still not your two.
Endless ego spills.