When the sky, for brief moments, stops.

Leaves no longer rustle as, briefly

Everything ceases. Drops

Of molten reality, unceasingly serene,

Drip, in shimmering uncertainty,

Sluggishly down like some surreal stream.


He drinks in that empty moment.

Savouring it as some trans-

Ient truth he knows must melt. Penitent

Yet, despite the gloating ignorance

Of the Hollow Ones, with their tidy, superfluous

Charm. That icicle spear glance


Shatters the moon-pool calm,

Like dreams twisting the empty ill-

Usions of a drenched emerald balm.

Now, creaking Time, casually recommence

In your random, untidy precision, kill-

Ing with every division all sense.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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