17 October 2016

Scribble Me

There is a long line of daily grind that dulls me.  It rises on the tide of loneliness and ebbs on

soul-death, when you just don’t care any more, and the greyed-up cobble-stones are all the

reason not to run, for leaden feet are weighted down by eyes that see no cobalt skies, and the

weary matter’s done.

What of the stick man ? His broken back a surreal joke ‘ I’ve got your back ‘…But I am he,

with no more stomach for the uber-scape of city-ness or the urban notes of voices emanating

from a bar… My heart is somewhere else, quivering, and soul is freaking out alone.  So that’s

where they are.

There’s nothing short of wickedness to tip out the holy grail, now, and let it empty on the

lightless pavements wet with dusty rain, when you’ve got nothing left or something left, and I

just want to shake me, just a glimpse escapes me, sharp and cool, I am clutching self and

running with my theft. 

©2016 Anne-Marie Hicks.  All rights reserved.