Monday, October 22, 2012


A funnel of face wash
and bisected bottles
of balms and butter.
Within crabbed cellophane
and an old book, half read
torn into tales.
Between those lies a protocol
unfinished and undone
and theories of velocity
in motion not gaining momentum
What a mess, life has become
a rigid ritual put down as a pact on paper
between thousand threads
trailing along time and the Almighty
We are nothing more than
those containers and cartons,
waiting to be cast away like clutter
into a casket christened in our name.

1 comment:

Dancing Fingers Singing Keypad said...

Brilliant! Loved this poem and the way it flows from the casual mention of everyday items to their comparison with our fragile lives.