p
An anthology hereby begins
Upon the window pane in a timid house.
In Nazareth, from the Republic.
Wrong may be the doings of our world
But there is a constant;
And we know what its' units are;
by respectable standards of creed;
And in ranked order;
The Sun, The Space, The Asteroids, The Moon
Moving as we do towards here.
2p
I think at times of the hole I have dug.
I know it is easy to return to the top.
But the greater I burrow, the further my own;
Gravity holds me inward.
It seems that I am being pulled down fractionally more;
So the curvature of the chassis of my engine
Is exactly the same as yours.
So they lock and multiply to rationality.
3p
I hold you to the power of God.
And to sit you at the court of a gaunt justice;
I trumpet my vow to be ignorant.
This is also your vow.
It is early.
Times go and times shall come.
As surely as the oak trees are;
There will be seed in the forest
Of Vagabond Moor
4p
An instant Polaroid grows at my discoloured memory.
As this old photo is wanting to go digital for safety.
Gives a hoot about my hunky chassis.
As long as the batteries recharge.
5p
And so I have written a piece to no avail.
With slow monstrosity in mind, such undeliverable mail.
I am trying to watch my own film.
I am now going to leave this theatre;
As the curtains fall as a feather.
The street is dark;
Trees have glistening bark;
I just want to walk home.
Walking without logic, I would roam.
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