My shoes are soaked through
and my wisdom’s shot,
my hands are burning blue
and like it or not,
the situation full of rhythmless clocks
is sending messages to manacles
covered in locks.
Filed under: poetry
July 9, 2009 • 1:31 pm
Scrawls on the walls:
 | Roger Stack on Journal VII: Polishing. |
 | Heather on Journal VII: Polishing. |
| Heather on Journal V: Under the Infl… |
 | icecollision on 25/6/09 “A moth steers t… |
| icecollision on 26/6/09 “Thoughts from a… |
the cogs, hands, spin mindlessly,
awaiting nothing but motion,
mocking our stillness.