a postcard of conception
now bows our incomplete.
salvation crawls four corners of a mile
through streets now surplus relics biting back.
cat-gut alone no cure the hanging sun
stranded in a bandaged disarray
somewhere between the ears of kingdom come;
summer solstice bears her loins
sharper than a tongue
bleeding moral fibre on the spines forgotten son;
high-ground or valley deep?
we ponder as we sleep between the choices we explore.
mouth to mouth
or spoon-fed to the lung?
will the fallen pine re-root and climb again?
these choices for the better or the worse
in cathedral of helium
squeaks and squarks delirious and loud!
how many rats stand poker-faced
straight-laced with eyes that glare uncivilised?
a postcard of conception;
written without purpose in my lounge of discontent.
a heavens scent
no longer reaches close enough to see
nor dares confess to still remember me;