Maybe it’s something chemical,
A lost cigarette burning free.
Its twisting fumes fanned away
by dancing digits after a capital C.
If I let the blood that’s turned magnetic,
Will my body be repaired,
To a time before a white flag was raised
to E=mc squared.
‘Existence is futile, meaning is dead’,
We declare while drowning in drink.
Rumination is spread by an ivory blade,
hungry eyes are refusing to blink.
Like a snowflake in the midst of a flurry,
Slow dancing in the eye of the storm,
I’m lucid, I’m still and I’m beautiful,
But the fabric around me is torn.
The sand is wearing thin and
charcoal turns to confetti on the scale.
‘Neglect is more noble than self-indulgence’
The closing chapter of a modern tale.
– Clare Gower