Response to the Dead Poets Society

If you squash them,

if you bend them,

if you project your face onto theirs,

their minds will break:

reflections shattered, a mass of cracks and holes

where a person should be.

Their bodies will rot, bulge, blacken, weep.

Kindling that longs to ignite

if only to prove that it has some self-worth left.

And at the end of it,

still it will not be your name you see,

but theirs, as it only ever could.

You failed them,

yet stand where they still should.



An hourglass drains gently,

The sand filling the gaps in her mind.

Flashes  of  trees,  the tang

Of burnt rubber tyres,

The man in the road,

Arms  outstretched  in a forced

Gesture of  greeting.

Death’s thin, precise blade cutting  deep  into

His chest.