Faultlines

Posted on 03 May 2010

Beauty is truant
and truth is a runaway;
suddenly signs are
that something’s unravelling.

Moon at midday,
the man’s talking in monotone
not meant for anyone;
no one is listening.

Somebody swept up
the sun spilt in alleyways;
all that was broad,
like an artery, narrowing,

starving the heart
till it hardens. The man’s alone;
moon mood is on him
and summer is shivering.

Nothing’s the same thing
that something was yesterday;
backstreets are everywhere,
none is worth following.

The rains have come early,
he weeps for no reason known,
just something slipped slightly,
altering everything.


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