Poetry (words)


This time, this pause, estranged adrift. Floating on an ocean of inclement rhyme. I recall a feeling of drowning, tangled up in the footfall of progress and the insurgence of unnecessary.
They tell us that the time is ours, but are we just accumulations of till receipts and plastic wrap. Of all the things we needed more than life itself. We talk of satisfaction and await the approval of strangers, quick fix, short lived, but forever filling the void.
What will we leave behind that isn’t replaceable, a list of favourite things sold to us from the suitcases of dreams. Weightless souls and guiding lights, irretrievable quantities of everything we didn’t know and couldn’t find the time to understand.