A lovely WHIRRED!

There are moments and places and traces and times

when you’d far rather recline 

your oh so many thoughts 

like lackadaisical warts

on the magick of 

unfamiliar sticks 

and stones which so often 

broke my ruined blowns: the winds

of rhyme which fragranced

my signs and signals,

and bloodied 

ligaments of long-distanced 

races:

that stasis of terribly 

terribly dispersed 

illness.

But amongst a sudden disconcerting 

crowd of the quiet and the loud,

and then the 

proud of their art, you can find

certain treasure in 

the pleasure exuded by two or ten 

or thirty or many

souls of endeavours so true.

And the noise becomes

lovely, and the

silence of your

self just a simple counterpoint of humanity, 

gentle and curiously torn.

And together in quiet and noise as one 

whirred,

everything acknowledged,

nothing unheard,

you finally discover the joy of real anonymity:

no enmity at all,

any more.







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