Finding in, Finding out's's um. errrrrrm
I've never been good at poetry.

There is a world.

It lies behind these

ideals and ideas,

opinions of others,

in extinction.


There is a world.

That is not your oyster

card. Behind the rain

and the window. Pain

where hurts the most.


There is a world.

It lies behind your television screen

where images are unfragmented,

purer than the lines of your fingertips.

Beneath the white veil

of the bride's blushing;

where humour a picture and her face stale.

Marrying a man she knew for days.

For no good reason, her eyes glitter;

Tomorrow she'll tell all on Twitter.

A pixelated mind is withered.


And then, like a drop from the sky,

It stirs, falls heavy. Deep inside,

a realisation arrives like a long

awaited letter.

Dated with dust, it reads:

Why polish the brass compass

that had never aged at all?

Why locked inside the cupboard drawers?

Stop shuffling those plump cushions

and choking the cracks on those walls!

Stop collecting spare buttons

and remember to shut that door!

Life is less for mapping but for shaping.

The present becomes satisfying.

Yet we keep it in deny, heavy but light as it slides.


This world, I held clenched between my fist;

Outside conventions could never truly exist.

Woven into my veins was nothing

like faith and gain but more sterile string.

A womb breeding ceaseless worms

Never one night passed unsquirmed.

Which wicked whispers can the walls hear,

ceaseless until the end itself nears.

Realisation. Came home in a rush,

Found that world entirely reduced to dust.

The End

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