Friday, 20 September 2013


The expanse of miles
Do not even perforate the bluest skies
Here, where eyes cross corrugated bookshelves
And you can find the essence of love
At night
In a stairwell.

Or between the lines
Where I find myself habitually
Caring for cadence which
Comes with the time.

For I, here
Hastily find expression
Amidst leaves and spines
In this human foliage,
This friction
We search ourselves for
Amidst the imperfections.

The single sheet mirror
And waiting for ourselves to surface
Though the tears, the charge
Thick through the slate of the human heart.

The pen slips as the
Morning breaks, to the
Scatter of light

The grating of feet.