London Poem: Day 317

30 June

The gentle collide, once
Promising thundering submission,
Fizzles in a great yawning yawp.
Forget the past, a voice cries,
But the mind holds firm the
Uncertain anticipation of a
Predicted system.
All of us move, twirling,
But the promise
Always holds firm.
There is no escaping the scare,
But movement buries the surface,
And underneath, for each living thing,
Lives the panic of once promised things.


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