Mind whirs
as if cicada were thorax-pinned
to specimen board.
Chores chorus-shrill
headache-making insect trill
prompting ineffectual pill.
I don't know what to do.
I miss you.
No order presents itself,
no figure with officious list,
ostentatious-licking pencil lead.
Must work it out myself.
I miss you.
That meagre glimpse of how things
could be,
must be my talisman.
Taliban-thoughts help no-one,
i must be strong –
mountains are composed of single grains.
As am I
myself made of atoms
anchored by pragmatic circumstances.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
