London Poem: Day 271

15 May

The line across gets
Lost in the water in between.
How we speak, the words
Are all the same,
But are drowning in the muddy
Transit. Progress, the thing
That binds us is only a word,
A sound, like friend,
To stand on ceremony so if
Anyone asks, we will
Have something to say, but,
We are far and I don’t know
If it is the same.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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