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Poetry

Role Play

Shuffling papers shakes up memories

into cinematic strips

that play on auto after every introduction.

Arranged this way,

how do we know they’re real anymore?

Morphed over time, nipped and tucked,

folded, welded, enshrined and entombed,

buried fast or brought forwards by warm words

from different perspectives.

We are made of stories.

We are stories.

Every Once Upon A Time

threaded into our minds through and through.

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Poetry

Gripped

It’s in the touch that we can find ourselves,

find our solid state once more

and stop the wisps of identity

being sucked away.

 

Whether it’s a switch

flicked back and forth,

or the feel of a friend’s hand,

it can bring us back.

 

Yet what if you’re barred from doing so?

What if the search lights come on

and leach away your freedom?

What then?

 

Do we find another means,

or do we let

ourselves drift away, voices and thoughts

silenced forever?

Poetry

Wanting

You want to be a post for me to lean on,

an ear to whisper all secrets.

You want to be my walking guide,

and take me off the boring paths.

You want to be the person I always laugh with,

the person who will take my hand in dance.

You want to be the one to hold me,

ward away all my fears.

You want to be a wall of protection

against all my daily worries.

You want to always be in my life,

smile at me every day.

You want to make a pact,

words that hold true forever.

 

I want to accept those words,

and to be all those things for you.

Poetry

Chocolate Box

And the trees take their last breath

before the mountain gets its luminous dusting for another season.

Below, the village smarts itself up

for photos

taken by every confectioner around

to be stamped on tins and boxes, ready to be discarded

without thought once the consumers have gorged themselves into stupor.

Yet when the year turns,

the people make to sweep away their sluggishness

with good deeds.

The trees reappear, breathing deep, refreshed,

and watch.

And listen.

In the distance, they spot small groups coming together

to tidy and repair.

They hope.

Poetry

Worlds apart, but ever close

In mid-flight, I heard your call,

Never knowing it was you at all.

As I neared the tallest hills,

My eyes caught sight and I was stilled

In the being of you:

Trickling words, algorithms of many hues.

Days, weeks, hours all passed,

I finally know at last,

Wherever I go, you will be.

We are utterly each other’s key

To our future prime.

We’ve given up being blind.