Sunday, 5 September 2010


When nothing remains to be said
I’ll be sad,
And likely as not
Dried up
Without a weapon
To bend
To my will’s use,
As I find that other tools
Elude me,
And leave my outstretched
Hands clammy.

And not for want of trying
Have they denied me,
And not for chance’s parity
Have I tried,
For a fare share of circumstance
Has danced with me
But I seem to have been born
With two left feet,
And a capacity to partner those
People with two right ones,
Or who were invariably wrong.

So when silence
Fences me within its stockade
I pray
For the return of words
To urn me
A further stay within the world
That sometimes turns
Clockwise and sometimes spins
Depending upon whether
You look up or down.

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