A moth asks Do we know what it is To actually love? As it gets swatted at I can’t remember what it was like…

Wandering from point to point And stretching our legs We do what we do And we lay our eggs But no matter how large

Never judge a book by it’s cover? Want me to bow to your proverbial… Keep spitting your self satisfied… I’ll judge a book by it’s cover I’ll gaze at the wrinkled spine

What, God fearing? I do not fear… For if God is loving as is so sai… He should not be wielding the divi… And if he does, unto all those poo… He cannot be just nor properly fee…

tin can heat and toucan crossings mechanics smoking questionables with loud mouthed customers blocki… the route past the non-corner shop rusting solar solutions flat tired…

The tactile brush of pages across… Trace memories and images of thing… I hold here in my hand a collectio… Concentrated emotion holding more… Another, and I can cry again at t…

Time passes, And our each allocated space and s… relative to the rhythm of lives being lived alongside ours. Strength and sinews fade with sick…

I measure time By whom I love Spells and stints And long eras It all passes

Soaked pebbles and tip toeing pede… Train stations, cold bricks and co… standing in the platform Smiling at beauty sometimes smilin… I’d read Nietzsche and Kafka and…

Grant me peace! To pester And pester And pester; See how the repetition adds

How hard is it to write in formal… In sonnet form with proper metre? A few short words written in rever… A rhythm that must not be let pete… And a story, usually of love

Its almost too cliché a broken heart shaped necklace shattered glass in the corner with a naked wire frame But I can imagine

A table, covered in bills and book… A bowl of cereal scattered cables And mugs of tea, coffee and I’m out of orange juice Missing screws and balancing badly