|
Written by David Flynn
|
|
Slipping, sliding, creeping under
consciousness.
Yet I see you, working
so busy.
The world looks small from far away,
cars collide.
Imagination is stretched to avoid
reality.
Suseris of tyres,
amorphous towers.
A land shrouded in fog.
A light on the landscape,
home, a direction.
A radiance in darkness.
Procedures, attention to detail.
The accusers dissemble deftly.
Morality is beyond them.
Hostility, in a cheerless place.
A grim celebration
of a lifetime's work.
In the margin,
a hectic note.
"I'd rather be me, than you."
|
