Two legged, wrapped
against mild January air
Hurrying this way and
that, we’re soft shelled insects,
Held in rapt
conversation with a friend that is not there
Cold to each others'
presence, except
For a clash of glances,
where
He inspects, and
she, quiet lidded, checks.
One corner of a sprawled
conglomeration
Bursting with life and
with machines
Howling with flashing
blue light consternation
When over there,
somewhere, a heart is beating,
Just, on the limit of its
function
It's owner hard bedded in
a cold street scene.
We live in fragile
shells. No-one can tell
Looking, what pain exists
at home.
Deep in, when layers of
mental
Coverings are shed at
night, deep in the bone,
When the last smiley face
has just been sent,
The tears. Not every face
can smile when home alone.
So many stories to be
wrapped up and binned.
Even the young ones,
wired, will some time lose the beat.
More hearts will stop
than ambulance can mend.
All journeys will one
day achieve their end.
© Richard Lawson
January, Bristol
No comments:
Post a Comment