Poems

It Seems

It seems, to me, that
there is a golden filigree that
haloes all the centres that
surround us.
And a friend of mine asked
is that the good kind or the bad
to which I reply, of course, with
a shrug.

Do you like it or not?
That’s the eternal question to
which I have no answer, only
my eyes wildly swivelling,
trying to take it all in although
there is, of course, nothing
to see.

It seems, to me, that
there is a depressional pedigree that
leads all the centres that
define us.
And a heart of mine asked
is that the wound kind or the balmed
to which I reply, of course, with
a cry.

Do you love me or not?
That’s the eternal action which
I cannot answer, only
my eyes widely swivelling,
trying to block it all out although
there is, of course, nothing
to escape.

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