The Poem

under the eaves,
it starts with a phrase,
under the eaves
or a thought
or a look
a painted sky
bleeding with the setting sun…
it starts with a thought
that floats random to the surface
from some deeper current
hidden away and in the dark –

out of sight;

it starts,
it starts like a first heartbeat
and never ends to til’ the last
always coming on
and pushing urgently through
with some message
that makes no sense
but comes with intent…

it starts with a phrase
or a glance
or a shape sound colour taste
and it can’t go away…just keeps scratching through
from the skull’s inside

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