London Poem: Day 260

4 May

Our eyes are sightless machines,
Floundering in the vast space
Of the hear, and now.
Everything turns, as we wait,
Eventually rolling over itself
In the quiet loop,
And yet, we wait for something to
Make its way to us.
There is hope, however, that funny
Little word put in place to
Soften a rocky world.
Ah, but nothing ever comes of it,
Save for the endless wrestle leading
Back to blindness.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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