London Poem: Day 138

2 January

There was no today,
Slipping off into other futures,
lost and not even given the chance
To be forgotten.
What is left are the uncounted
For hours, the other minutes,
Which span thousands of miles
With only our pulses to count
Them off.
We are lost, among stars,
Cold and quiet, absent
To the sleeping world below.
There are greater stories,
But none I’d prefer to
Call my own but this.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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