What if freedom is a trick of the eye,
a flutter of hands? It absconds
when we breathe, shatters when we stare
too close. Too fixed.
What if chains no longer weigh us down,
when vaults no longer contain our minds,
can we construct our own device?
An ark of fear to impale us:
for which lives better, the feral beast or spoilt pet?
She would do
Make do
A shrug as you count and find
Slightly wanting.
Nearly there
Almost perfect
Rather very but sufficiently nice.
Vainglory flows from the cups we have shared.
Satiated and plump, we each go our way.
We shape this damp shroud between us
We cast it pearls to rummaging snouts
We batter some life in things long left dead
We scratch our wounds raw.
After the party
We linger and drain once-intimate gestures
of meaning, magic and trust.
Empty cups, vain promises,
Hopes unsated, we just miss.
findingtimetowrite 