A mixture of crazy syllables. 1994.

A mixture of crazy syllables crowds around

A constant whirling tribe.

A fuelling wonder, stalking new prey.

I am frightened, somehow in a fruitless fashion.

Have I lost the skills of freedom,

mind rambling loose expression?

Is it slowly losing its butterfly breath and being strung , by one foot, upside -down.

maturing in a haze of flies?

I miss it so, the other side, that sighing in bright colour fades to sienna.

Dust finger through the mantelpiece.

Experience creating waste.


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