January 2023

Your lies once conveyed in Truth 
now spewed by birds in flight,
a lamb’s chirp in pursuit of recognition;
a legacy of butchers and little men
tally unstable rulers without rules, balls 
or chance of ever becoming anyone
of lasting importance; your legacy
is the rotting onion, the doll
within a doll,
without soil
to prosper. 
Your lies once conveyed in Truth 
now die by day,
die by night
in the fading light 
— of lunacy. 

There is meaning, and meanings 
hidden amongst the glyphs 
and white spaces 
separating this from that, us
from
them, 
and the new lines 
and new pages
intrinsic to every separation. 
My meanings safely stored
where you fear to go,
behind the veil of the ordinary 
a graveyard of the fallen thoughts,
fallen hopes and the glue 
that once bound them; truth
is found on the back of a sticky note,
a remnant of a binding gone wrong
where only fluff remain.
There is meaning, and then
— there is not. 

Friends and fading friendships,
like sailing through foggy harbours
horns blasting without ears to see
the fleeting thoughts of a captain
steering, staring, starring 
in a final voyage across the seas; 
hazy dreams and backs slapped 
figs imagined and shoulders tapped;
friends and fading friendships
like bracken without snowmen dancing,
like a wave from an armless man
to an armless woman
walking slowly across the frozen ice
in the harbour of inescapability.