We are loping in the margins, waiting For time to become ours again.
The margins get smaller as Larger type fills the page.
Fate
Control
The road forks
Strands that
Forever but also
Are thin and can
Slip through hands.
Close the cracks.
Keeping it real
We make what ifs and isn’ts
To feed our minds fresh memories
What can be made can be
Seen, what can be seen, is.
Still life cannot be stopped,
It was there before easel,
We can only sit in silence
And find peace in mimicry.
Float
His roaming came
Round one day,
Led him fast
To me over skiddy
Bumps, lumps
In his throat, throttled
Down with sheer
Glide, the pride
Of Fate that bears
Souls on, beyond
The room they
Live in, to another
In the house or
Outside, even,
Further on,
To a new
Life and
Strange people,
Foreign with newness.
Here his soul
Found me,
Clocking out a
Beating sound
To mark passing
Life, feet nailed
Heavy, to the
Ground. Now
It feels as though
That instant,
Nails flew wide
And I flew up
With him on
Something fast
Moving and heady.
In reality
Time swept
On, no less
Neat than
Before nailed
Feet, freed,
Leapt on.
Subject
Tell me Life
Toblerone day
Chunk of bite
Bitten off.
What has stopped
The cool running
Fate and redirected
It somewhat
Askew?
Is it illness, embedded
Or a viral bug
Caught quick,
Nifty urchin,
Off the Tube?
More to wit,
Can I control it,
Make it go
Stop with a loud
BANG!!!!!????
Snuffed.
[7th October]
Being Every Day 