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Mar 2016
dance of days, head as a twig, to pass the time away. tendrils unfold and try not grip too tight or loose, to never lose or choke; sometimes feeling the low roar of blood rushing through flow-spaces, held in prepare and transparency. in these moments, there is a fine tapestry we were woven upon, gestures lain side-by-side.Β sayin' all the same words, in distinct& ruffled tongue.

cold snap, and there's layers again. cycles run circles and somewhere, at the back of the room, there's an utterance: "funny, that". and i wonder if i'm hearing my voice or just seeing my own breath. it echoes in the corners, out between shadows. my left eye's been twitching, but only as ghost. i carry out the honours after, only by some gnarled sense of capitulation.

but that's life.
i just hit 100k views, thank you all for your kindnesses. this has been sitting as an unpublished piece for ages, and now's a better occasion than ever to set it free.
Tom McCone
Written by
Tom McCone  Wellington
(Wellington)   
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