you make poetry fail

it doesn’t do 

what it’s supposed to

it will not paracetamol the pain

when that heavy thudud slows

in an arthritic ache of the soul

torn and trying and tested

words will not communicate

the silence that is sharper

than the narrowest slice

the sting that separates with

an almost-invisible line- that web of a 

thread that shimmers in the sun until you

blink it away. words will not communicate

the shifting intention that reform of the 

essence that reclaim of innocence. 

when eyes change their dimensions

to encompass compassion until that

beating mind melts retreating 

restless tired tested 

fired

 

 

 

 

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