The Tower

The tower

is an island

all of its own.

 

The tower

is a needle

in an embroidery pattern.

 

The tower

is a hand waving

both hello and goodbye.

 

The tower

is a tree,

branch-less yet sturdy.

 

The tower

is a central pole

in a big top circus.

 

The tower

is polished crystal,

mirroring the stars.

 

The tower

is just a tower,

when all’s said and done.

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Evaporate

Engines chug away

propelling the clouds into new positions

that people read

as sacred teachings.

Oblivious

to the mechanics behind their prophets.

Those maintaining the perpetual motion

no longer speak or hear

in a common tongue.

Language

is lost to them now.

Sweet almond paste

You pop it into my mouth, expecting

me to savour the taste

as it melts on my tongue.

It’s pleasant, yes, but the sweetness

is just that little bit too sweet,

almost spoiling the rest.

 

The day you took those photographs,

you said I looked sweet.

Was I over sweet?

Your smile was never true after that,

as though suddenly you’d seen more

than you were hoping for

but were still left disappointed.

 

The paste in my mouth has completely

broken down now.

Just like my image of you.