Constant...
A constant bombardment -
no rest from the hit
of thoughts - in commotion
showering my way...
They sometimes hit gently
then fall into fudge -
and when I retrieve them
they've turned into spray...
Always - they're around me
in all sorts of shapes -
plucking and pulling
or hurting my heart...
I sit in a cafe
and dream into steam
from coffee and chocolate -
but still feel apart...
There's nothing to stop them -
there's nothing to do
to hinder the hurling -
the mixture - of it...
I rise from the table
and pick up my stuff
and walk into chaos -
ducking the bits...
Joy Weare,
21st June, 2010.
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