There is a line.
It folds around the edges of my capability,
preventing any access to that guarded space
that holds the release.

Inside, there are words.
That ebb and flow
as easily as if they were
already in existence
But they escape me,
and as much as I reach out,
I cannot grasp them.
Their blurry forms dance before my eyes,
teasing me, and laughing
at my torment.

But when I find them.
When the words finally become clear
and I can see them for what they are,
the ease with which I take them
makes it all worth it,
as I fit them into the page.

A touch of dead and the land lay still.
At the heart of the sea: London and
the woman who drew buildings.
Despite the falling snow, the killer is dying.
The man who forgot his wife. The lock artist.

Words cannot describe the extra-
(He was better off without her)
ordinary atmosphere, the harrowing
(He didn’t need anyone)
pain, the animal
(which made him wonder)
delight in satisfying our
(why he continued to watch)
hunger. The embraces.
C’est la guerre!

I take it your love was eternally broken
when your hand crosses faith like the cards on the wall.
I could tell when your words were eternally spoken
like the truth that is blamed for the names that I call.

Does it help you to know that we’re already dying?
Does it help you to know that my last skin has shed?
When the world hasn’t known that you’re already lying
with your face to the wall and a hole in your head.

I cannot believe that my last chance was taken
by people who breathe with their hands in their mouths.
When the total survivors were lost and forsaken
Don’t you leave them alone to be broken and bound.

There’s a hole in the anticipation
waiting for the ground. It goes
beyond a moment. It appears
around the body, lying in the
corner. Hoping for emptiness
under the earth. Dreading
that it carries on into the
stuffiness. And people, no
gap left by the personal
space. Crushed. It’s more
than physically lost. I can’t
move. It’s a hole, I need
to get out. No, world. What
can hear me, I am forgotten.
The hole, another face in an
organised crowd, is recognisable.
Filled with dirt. Certain people
begin to speak but we feel
empty. They leave spaces behind.
New people arrive. Time
happens, which sets them behind,
apart from the rest. Like
the earth covers the grave,
so we, with a struggle, put
it from our face and minds
for the way back.