Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Ambitiously I claim to empathise with the moth
and its staggering honesty-concentrated,
pesky, wrapped
in fateful little smotherings.
The heat of panic and ice of fear
abrade away every stability
and sunlight strips in the backseat,
shadows stretch
until only the hardest husk of remains,
twilit, gripping the bedclothes.
Reluctant, reluctant.
Love refuses to change hands.



Adoration is unraveling
      strand
           by
   strand.
A thousand threads until yesterday
                is unraveling
           and history is unraveling.
Loose ends are countless when
          twine in lifelines
      is all becoming
        unwoven
down to its lonely strings. Lifelines,
               greyed,
      frayed,
           pale grey blankets,
                                  shy normality,
                    dust and icicles,
quiet distances
     and used faces of old fortresses
                    built from teeth,
                mouth-caverns and sockets
    crumple gristle and rust
                          onto bone,

    Fossilized skeleton structures.
          Fossilised feelings.