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.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
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.
I wrote this using a poetry engine. You write the first things that come to your head about two objects in a column each, I chose Grave and Bus journey. Then you read across the two columns and combine the two. Obviously lots of editing is sometimes necessary!
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