Wednesday, February 12, 2014

In Bristol Centre

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 

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