Late running slurred words, blurring, blooming
exactitudes I cannot calculate,
stores of pathways in a distribution,
simply awaiting one more dimension -
there is always another of freedom:
particular coherence decoheres,
entangled with environment; the wave
of the universal floods all cellars.
Oh, if this late hour, gathering up time,
could be trafficked upon a destiny
which would take me too, bloodshot and bolshie,
buzzing with nothing, transcending the pain -
which I will feel again with waking soon,
too soon, you gone for ever, breaking me.
YOU ARE READING
Gifts and Shards Vol 2
PoetryThis is the second and final volume of 'Gifts and Shards'. This takes us from the second month to now well over three years later, though there were many C poems in the collections tracking the seasons. There are no similar stories!
