Poetry | Stories | Photography
The sky is full of AI,
you cannot remember the sun and the sky.
A collection of before,
all is regurgitated into the producer of myth.
For a moment longer,
my mind strays to a sunset of fading colours.
And, the remembering –
our suffering compounded within the absence.
eyes to the starscape
stardust falls on my glasses
the moon, they appear
enigmatic tree
a rustle of lush green leaves
the forbidden words
To live within parallel lives.
Working diligently to find a title for a discontinued road
and
thinking about writing poetry about spatulas and kettles.
Autumn leaves moving
into the river vortex
Losing the Autumn
the susurrus sea
revealing the horizon
whispering stories
Within us.
The people of that day said,
“It’s a Primordial urge that will not cease“.
We fled.
Who we were and what we knew was gone
as they round up the masses.
Whispers.
The wind whispers of what we once were
before the madness took hold.
Within this structure,
he tinkers with tools and gadgets
away from the world.
Unbeknownst to his sweet wife,
he conjures magic in
the shed that was built for him.
He places wooden miniatures
around the house,
so they come to life at night.
a shape in the dark
the brush of fur against skin
incessant pawing
Afraid of the kitchen
Noises coming from the cupboards
a scrape of some sort
So sick of this hell
Confrontation is the only solution,
the saucepans fly
Hell’s Symphony plays a wild tune
falling to the floor
Only the kettle will save you today
C & K 