Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Seventy-five followed by Seventeen Zeros (and not one is me)

Just a fracture in the sheer,
Spilling down her face
Like a grief-stricken tear.

Weighted and waiting
For the skipping throw,
Of lucky worn slating.

Inferior and to the feet
And the dogs wet pawing; between them
In crashing, rolling: the ceaseless repeat.

Then you slip away, as planned;
Forgotten and insignificant
Just a grain of sand.

You fall through the hand,
You travel free on the air,
You are just a grain of sand.

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