Saturday, 28 February 2015


It is all monument
This is moment
The words themselves recycling
The  books which line upon the shelves
Tell of lives, in short,
And dying.
These words, laid with Pygmalion’s touch
Haunt the mind
As speech it fails
And Galatea’s only armour is
That she tells of another tale
My skin shrills of father and mother
And them in turn, or those before
And yet I reach out into nothing

Seeking now, for something more.

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