London Poem: Day 160

24 January

Which way can we expect
To teeter as the fire
Lifts us up with tired arms,
Bringing the transit to death
Slowly into our laps.
No one quite knows
What will happen,
Ignoring the fact that we
Never do, but these words
Take the shape of others:
I’m afraid.
It is too strong a sound
To pass over the tongue,
So it folds to shape
Into our own tiny code,
To conceal fear as it
Inevitably washes over.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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