Doub[t{out}s]

The piece of early morning

times like a clock, missing from his

heart in some unfamiliar way –

yet all its truth is totally

familial in each, in every way.

And each of them has played a part in the now,

or so it does seem, unable as always

[has-

been]

his being,

lost to modernity and misunderstood

tenderness.

And all he wanted was to be loved.

And all he needed was to love another.

And now they gathered, like bales of hay,

ready for consumption,

ready to keep wintry moments at bay,

like the cold he’d felt and seen underskinning his

body, and being and less than bold way of seeing.

And all he could think of was that long long embrace

that had painted their meeting in colours

of gold, and souls suddenly flew in a moment

of truth: that love and affection which would

never repeat, of that moment of flight which would

never re-

turn.

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