A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate

Amongst the dying, amongst the rage,
within the thousand souls and a thousand more,
twisting in their own remorse,
I found so heavenly a voice, so powerfully calm,
not once, not twice, but again, again and again did I fall.
I fell for that voice, that voice, who?

Was it a lone soldier, finding solace in the aftermath?
Was it a villain, freed from the confines of a life long lost at the hands of rage, insanity?
Was it the common man who stayed untouched, or was it one who found dreams beyond wonder?
Was it a mother's lullaby, a sister's requiem, a daughter's salute?

Lying in blood, in smoke and scream, it swept up each fleck of horror,
carrying, in gentle hands, perhaps, every sin and every lie, obligation and grief,
to the pinnacle of truth seen just beyond the clouds;
lying there, I'd never felt smaller.
There it was, the mountain of judgement, a soldier for truth,
and the voice delivered to it every excruciating injustice and the tears of the evil, of the good and the poor.
That voice, that voice! Sing again, sing forever more,
the anthem of salvation that echoed through the burning woods.
And so I ask,

why do you sing? Who is it that hears you?
You sing for your lover, your mentor, your child?
Do you sing for every warrior lost to time's manipulation?
Do you sing for every survivor, galvanised, everlasting, immortal?
Do you sing for the gods and their reckless plans?
Or perhaps, for yourself? O Voice, god, merciful god,
the melody you shower upon these bloodied lands,
knows not how undeserving we are to hear its splendour.

I asked who you were, but now, I only ask,
that you walk past our corpses and say not a word.
But merely sing, sing as you have,
and never be weak to slip in our blood.
But to find your way out of this horror, this world of the doomed,
and find a dream long forgotten:

The dream of a soldier's unconditional smile,
the dream of a mother's undying pride;
The dream of two lovers, and their unison unhindered,
The dream of every villain to turn back the waves of time.
The dream of every fighter, for justice or survival, to find peace among the peaceful,
The dream of every sister who marched by the bodies, longing for his blissful return from our land.
The dream of every daughter who arose amongst the fallen, to live free and not fight;
And the dream of the common man, to soar victorious, to see sights unknown, to suffer and rise, to end and begin.

And as you walk, I see, you are not far.
Or perhaps, what I see,
Perhaps it's a dream.
O Voice, god, merciful god,
Sing.

i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.

i hear the collective understanding

of dry sticks as they crack

the shock of alarm signals

like the migratory diaspora

of birds flying south

vibrates across tingling nerves

causing a necklace of choking

to grip at the throat

shivering I try to find a grave

I am watched from the summit of a hill

as a conflagration spreads

flames quiver

orange, yellow, purple, blue

there is an irregularity of thought

within me

my bones will soon

be pitched into debris

a petrified shiver

they still watch from

the summit of the hill

i collapse, gripped with a fear

of a permanent consignment

like that of dropping into a hollow

my face becomes plum stained

the income of breath becomes

a tenacious gasp

smoke swirls around me

blinding my red eyes

I become a misshapen

component of myself

standing like an effigy

hands raised in supplication

hysterically I try to

rid myself of this tyranny

find no distinguishable form

no solidified inquisitive intent

I rush and lash out

with a galvanised

inner adrenalin raised frenzy

a red sun appears

on the summit of the hill

ferocious in its heat

it lacks all euphony

and disintegrates with

debarring light

now speechless and cold

i fear the wind will find me

i move, burrow back

into a darkness

fire strokes across a green canvas

i am fault and disappear

without trace

i don't want to fall in love
because i'd rather say that
-
love digs its hands deep into the dirt to plant its roots,
to give false hope to the weaklings of mankind that requite is truly attainable
that love lies in the tears of our galvanised hearts, attacking the cracks of our fissured craniums
reminding us of our (now) inexorable incarceration
that love creates waveforms between fragile persons, in its attempt to orchestrate some sort of perfect dissonance
that love declares 'i am in control' (and makes us believe so)
to toy with the pieces left of our already tortured souls.
and that love only breaks us whole,
when our holes were what broke us first
-
than say love was "made" for me and you
;
because to fall in love would mean
falling
(onto your chest to remind me of what we had)
which would be a deathtrap on its own
one i would shamefully not regret

lyrics from half-cherished poems
a pet who owns you half the time
a half-boy half-thing who ignores his omens
a life, a lie, a reach, a rhyme.

What is the air breathed in by the millionaire?
The same as inhaled by the slum-dweller?
The monopoly on air is great!
Or imagined?

A false dichotomy, a false pretense,
a logical fallacy, a paradox and contradiction. Linguistic sounds murmured and mumbled by orators and curators.

The breath of life is the worlds most beautiful gift, but also a mundane commodity,
It is in a perpetual state of being unwrapped and re-wrapped,
Transported by logisticians,
Prepared by makers,
Packaged by designers,
Consumed by the user,
Expelled by the waster,
Salvaged by the recycler,
Reminder of our life,
Reminding us of our mortality
Which we so frequently forget.

Breath is without choice,
We are unforced,
We flow the atoms inside us
Which our lungs are built to contain,
But particles need to be expelled.
As all good things must come to an end,
So must the ego we wish to contain.

Nature's masculinity is all too powerful, dominating the global hemisphere. His spheres of influence are enermous and his allies volatile.
Fire, metal, lightning, magma, stone, thunder.

An awesome feat,
We have learnt to harness electricity,
The ecstatic delight,
The shock of wonder,
We are galvanised into apathy,
Wired on our technology,
Device on finger,
We have yet to integrate the complex organic with the intricate artifical.

The technology of air is a great invention, invented by an invisible nothingness, an empty void of silence, a chasm of infitissimal unmeasurableness.
We have yet to harness this ancient element.

As we race about and fulfill our desires,
Humans, thought to be different,
No, we are a microcosm of repetition, a chain reaction, a catalyst of a parralel universe.

We have created our own branch of nature,
We are a branch hanging off the trunk
Our own pecking order,
We are not elemental isolates from the land which we once grew on.
Diamonds are made from carbon.
Flesh from cell.
Cell from atom.
Interconnected, neural and galactic.
The microscopic projections playing through our planetary minds:
Sharp as the claws of beasts.

The tiger rattles its chains,
Exuding its own glory,
Its notoriety known amongst
The lesser kingdom dwellers.
Is it moral to cease the latters' lives early on, severed by the hand of sentient and intelligent conciousness?

The grand old question proposed by philosophers.
To **** or to be killed?
To live or to die.
War or peace?
Answers and binaries, we rush in attempt to answer both,
The sedate and the anxious professors will philosophise,
Knowledge will reach the masses,
Ignorance remains.

Time will pass and death will come to all of us,
Mortality an unstoppable force,
an unstoppable ticking,
A machine in the clockwork of nature,
A cog that has been inhabited by life,
An abstraction colonised by thinkers and doers,
All on the same trajectory of the unknown.
Powerless and hopeless civillians, grasping and clinging desperately on an immense rocketship,
Fighting for survival.
Are we preparing for a greater good or a we headed into the dark oblivion?

The corporations too - perceived as more powerful -
Know they have land and
Ownership of property,
Exerting their will
In an extravagant and
Flamboyant fashion.
A luxurious and pompous display,
A model for citizens to admire

Sooner than we know,
The invisible does become visible,
The curtains are opened.
Even denyers become believers.
The windows of facades,
To be scratched. Will be clawed.

We lament and count our losses,
But the trees remain grounded,
Roots are always shifted,
Loggers cut down beasts of beauty,
All too common, there are all too many treefellings.
Her presence is sparse and dense.

We raise, we grow and then we prepare and consume.

Is it so strange we do this to eachother when we do this to nature?

In a internation that worships success and scolds failure, how can the failure be allowed to live?
He is at the mercy of the lucky,
he is at mercy to dissaproval,
he is at mercy to mockery.

The air she does not distinguish between worthy and unworthy, she gives lovingly to children of the earth.
Is it not time love ourselves to love eachother and love her back?

Is it much more powerful to imagine utopia than to disdain dystopia?
We are a dusty age that Mother blows away with her strength of love.

We forget her might,
Her fury, her will.
She: more powerful than all of us.
The earth can crack,
The skies will burn,
The seas will flood.

Our might is remembered by historians,
Our strength is revealed through leaders,
Our vulnerability is exposed.
Our secrets are brought to light.

We are as evil the land.
Life lived in the grey.

Just scribbling in the bible book
taking a gander
having a look at
what Jesus said,
but
there's a lot of other things going on with
Mathew,
Mark and especially Jonah who's
slightly older.

The unexpurgated edition tells
the real tale,

It's a bit Medusa to say the least.

But this is not about religion,
that's not my pigeon as the hawk would say,
that's if hawks could talk.

it's more of a stroll through the undergrowth
where the lichen grows or
dipping my feet in the water and wiggling
my toes,

Realisation.


nothing is real
people craft miracles from icicles
and how hot is that?

we talk in rivers of riddles
we walk on flesh made of stone

call it a poem
call it galvanised steel
but
nothing is real.

Infinity stretches out like a worm
and
how do you compete with it
or last as long as it.

Repro'

the double and triple,
quadruplicated replicas
in camera
locked in a screen,
the ripple that runs through
your dream
where nothing is real but you
know it's not true,

are you the potency of
the reprobate?

Summer and the winds are fair
to the seafaring man
who used to be there
but who
now lives in the mission.

All things end in the end which is
as unreal as it gets.

flesh meets metal fired with deadly intent
children splash in the shallows of an ocean
a woman kneels hugging the gravestone of a loved one
kites are flown high in skies shared with tank shells
the sun shines brightly obscured by the smoke of explosions
there is no normality only the normality of premature death
this is the warring of Man hatred galvanised set loose
all respect all understanding all mercy forgot this is Gaza

he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.

the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.

the weather warning is cancelled.

6.12 am.

sbm.

A galaxy of bugs encircle a bulb,
Rallying and returning all hypnotised,
Some relish that electric heat,
Others lounge in that buzzing beat;
Most get too close and are galvanised.

When that familiar light floods in,
All these insect clubbers take in their night's din,
Just to do the same in the daytime.

what about this list,

to do it before you die,

well as she said, you probably

can’t do it after. some may disagree -

another belief. we try not to judge,

yet that  bucket was not worth

five pound, so i offered two.

old,  too enamoured to be

used for rhubarb.

i shall search for another.

there is an old galvanised bath

in the garden.

sbm.

She called last night
After months of radio silence

The first ring
Why? why was she calling?
Did she need anything?
that's why she'd usually called earlier
Did she even deserve my help?
She was the one who stopped
Stopped talking stopped calling stopped sharing
Nothing. just nothing.
like I was nothing
like we'd been nothing

The second ring
Why the hell was she calling?
how dare she?
I should just pick up and scream my head off
hurt her with my voice as much as she hurt me with her silence
or I just shouldn't pick up at all

the third ring
What's the whole point?
She'll listen to my rant with manufactured concern
and when I have bled everything out
when my bones have been robbed of the anger that galvanised them
she'll crumble these bones to dust
with a 'sorry'
and it will start all over again

the fourth ring
Maybe it could start again
once she apologises, we can talk
I won't be emotional, I promise
I will be cool, more detached
it's just fun to talk to her
I just won't have any expectations

the fifth ring
It could work this time..
I mean, this plan didn't work the last time she came back
Or the time before that when she returned
Ugh maybe I should just let it ring.

the sixth ring
You know what I'll pick it up
I can do this
I'll just find what she wants
It'll be okay

*My hands reach out, trembling
About to click on that green button
And the phone stops ringing.

In Defence of Donal Trump

He is a crude person, not one I would
like the share a coke with, but he has galvanised
the working class (middle class) which was
shunned under the previous administration.
The class forgotten by other parties have found
a voice someone who talks for them
and more Americans are at work as never before.
He represents an America that is not glib and
university educated but merely want a job and be able
to feel they are listened to.
He is a reckless president does not understand
foreign politics and don't care to know, but his group
do not care about Afghanistan, Iraq or other places,
he is delivering want they want.
This is what an American president is for.

Elsan! I know… it sounds like a sun-kissed Spanish Beach doesn’t it?. El San!
What it is, is a make of chemical toilet. In the old days, we called it The Can!
In the yard behind a Yorkshire farmhouse… your fate & your poo - was sealed!
Grandma Ellen’s WC was the best advert for crapping alfresco out in the nearest field.

But, in a corrugated shed… a plank seat on a galvanised bin with a cranking handle.
Always best visited in daytime ‘cos after dark you’d need to take a candle.
And, when you’d achieved your goal in there… and it was past your time,
you cranked it and your extrusion disappeared in the primordial slime.

It was not a reader’s loo… No time for catching up wit’ Daily Mail.
although the paper was held neatly to the shed’s timber frame with a trusty, rusty 6inch nail.
It was cut into handy squares.  And almost without fail, you’d start to read still sitting there
and, when you got into the words, readable in the gloom, they were cut off just above the tear!

No, you’d just want to get out quick… The Jeyes Fluid scent would tend to make you gag,
It didn’t even allow my cousin Alan time for a crafty ***.  And monthly, according to occupancy,
Uncle Charlie did the job he’d said he’d never fancy, that of struggling toward the field
to empty the contents. Ironic really that after Uncle Charlie and Auntie Nellie died
the next owners plumbed their new one - up to the new fangled mains inside!

accept things. easy? no, i wrote of this yesterday.



looks better in visual than stuck in mind. html.



go with the flow.                       we had thought

it was an eel fighting yet it     was some string

in the current.



he said he had used the wrong nails,

had hoped for galvanised.



it is alright, we are not in denial.



there is a spectrum.



sbm.

THE NEW GODS

The rain
rained

as was
its wont.

It was just being
itself.

Paying no attention
to the humans

caught up in
its moment.

"Wow!" said the humans.
"Wow!" the wind mimicked them,

An old shed
offered them its protection.

Already they
soaked to the skin

set about
removing everything.

The rain now
galvanised itself.

Above their head the world was
being pulled apart

atom by atom
it seemed

that if they were to
emerge that moment

there would be nothing upon nothing
for ever and ever.

They huddled together
fearful of the thought

as if it could come
true.

They pooled their warmth
together

flesh cleaving to flesh
they knew each other

in a Biblical way.

They were taming the storm
remaking the world

with their love
even as it was

torn apart.

Each caress
putting back

molecule by molecule
the lost world.

When the great monster rain
had sulked off

they came again
into a day

made of sunshine
and the wonder

of what was
to be.

The world
created anew

in their own
image.

They now
the new gods.

1943 ww2
The. Invasion force took
the never ending war
to the other side of the English channel.
It had been long in coming
but they were ready.

The invasion landing craft
were rusty made of iron and steel
like the men aboard them
They were all afraid.
They knew  their losses would be many.
They knew it might be them

But the duty was absolute
for each and every one of them.
He was a teacher not a soldier
but wars had made him into to one.
He could not recollect
when he even shot
a firearm at an enemy.
Or even if he could.

He was not a avid soldier
but he must do his duty.
He knew this
as he looked at the men
in the crowded landing craft.
The beach was silent no chaos
but in moments that would change,

the protective front dropped to the ground.
As he rushed forward
as though an electric light switch
had been galvanised.
the mayhem started
machine gun fire and rockets
bombarded them.

He saw his friend Johnny hit badly
in the chest it was fatal.
He dropped His weapon
and cradled the young man in his arms.
He died there calling for his mother.

The rocket shell exploded next to him
and he fell next to his friend
and lay as dead.

Three years later

The military hospital was always
full so much pain so much grief.
The Irish nurse was cleaning the soldier
that had been in a coma
since his arrival  several years ago.

She had bright green eyes
and red hair the trademark traits
of an Irish lady
who drank a can of hope and stubborn
every morning for breakfast.

She noticed his fingers moving
Well now she whispered
Its himself.
He's with is thanks be to Jesus.

His eyes opened they were
blue and beautiful.
Your back are you?
so she said.
I thought you were going
to sleep forever
so I did

When am I?
he said almost in a whispered
Am I dead?
No your back with the living she smiled.

It was the start of his recuperation
she helped him move his
anthropic muscles.
and learn how to walk again
she told him of the war
being over and won.

After six months he was well enough
to leave the hospital.
He had even interviewed for a teaching post
at greycastle school for boys.
The doctors told him to take a vacation
Perhaps  on the railway
to help in resolving himself
with the post war world.

He took the sleep train from euston station
in London and set forth on his adventure.
The old coal fired engine set forward
to Scotland it was peaceful
as he passed the green towns
of England county by county.

Until re reached Scotland .
Ahh! Scotland
so far away from a London
he no longer wished to see
after its desolation from the bombs.

He trembled as he thought of the war.
As the train trundled past lochs and mountains
of Scotland gleaming in the rare sunlight
he felt a peace that had eluded him for so long.

She alighted the train at Inverness
so beautiful and yes enticing.
Even to a stodgy old
out of work schoolmaster like him.

She  sat opposite to him in the old carriage.
After  while she opened
her huge purse an took out a
package of sandwiches.

Would you care for one she asked softly.?
Normal reticence was overtaken by hunger
Yes  please that would be lovely he said.
He bought two weak after war coffees
from the char lady.
And two custard creams.

They talked he did not realise.
How much he had missed
the conversations with an attractive lady.
He told her of his war issues
how he had lost several years in a coma
She listened intently to him.

He realised  that such a beautiful woman
would have no interest
in an old stodgy
Old school  teacher like him.
But she was sweet
and kept asking him more details
about himself.

He knew he had no skills
in charming the fairer ***.
Only his love of literature
Shakespeare decarte Chaucer
but she did not seem to mind.
By the time the train reached CHESTER
he realised that he was in love with her.

The train inched its way back
into euston station
On a trip he did not want to end

The window was open an piece of coaL dust
from the engine found its way into his eye.
she rolled the edge of her handkerchief  
and got the speck of soot  out of his eye.

The pain subsided immediately
Then she pulled his face to hers
and kissed him. Full on The mouth.
I have never kissed a man
Unintroduced before she said.
But you are so very shy.

Forty  five years later

They were old now he was dying
They lived in the house
allocated to headmaster emeritus
of greycastle school
a post he held for some twenty five years.

She leaned over his bed
and said do you remember
the train my love.?

Even in leaving her he smiled
yes my Darling
You shared your ham sandwich with me.
And then you kissed me first.
thats because I found my life partner.
Like this she said
he saw her crystal grey eyes
Still as beautiful as the day
they captured his heart so long ago.
The fragrance the softness of her lips.
He passed from her
The last breath of his in  this world
Was left on her lips.

The train was  traveling through the daylight
scotland came into view the lochs
and mountains the purple heather.

The old char lady came into the carriage
He bought two coffees and two custard tarts.
Be patient sir she whispered kindly,
She will be joining us very soon.
At Inverness.

THE NEW GODS

The rain
rained

as was
its wont.

It was just being
itself.

Paying no attention
to the humans

caught up in
its moment.

"Wow!" said the humans.
"Wow!" the wind mimicked them,

An old shed
offered them its protection.

Already they
soaked to the skin

set about
removing everything.

The rain now
galvanised itself.

Above their head the world was
being pulled apart

atom by atom
it seemed

that if they were to
emerge that moment

there would be nothing upon nothing
for ever and ever.

They huddled together
fearful of the thought

as if it could come
true.

They pooled their warmth
together

flesh cleaving to flesh
they knew each other

in a Biblical way.

They were taming the storm
remaking the world

with their love
even as it was

torn apart.

Each caress
putting back

molecule by molecule
the lost world.

When the great monster rain
had sulked off

they came again
into a day

made of sunshine
and the wonder

of what was
to be.

The world
created anew

in their own
image.

They now
the new gods.

thankyou for the prompt, the questions.

some times there is no answer, no words to describe.

yesterday i went alone to hold those feelings private

there was joy in the small things

chips from the shop the first for two years

ate in the sun under the particular trees

the absence of red soap and the joy of seeing the garden again, the galvanised cold frames

and wondering why only eight of her children were carved in the church recess when she bore ten

yet I tell you this

it were a lovely day with new surprises

and confirmation that I never wish to win

nothing

liking enamel tops for tables
liking enamel anything

i have a few here , cupboards and the like
around the place

also liking galvanised iron
enjoy putting the words in
search on ebay
to see what comes

up

the garden there are bins to
store compost and slate

chippings

your plans sound homely

i remember dogs chasing bikes
down green road, barking into

the distance

had a delivery yesterday and
he struggled with the weight
tell tale signs

later I stored it all
struggled with the weight
in two parts

it is clear this morning and
I fear I shall not get to lampeter

this year

it is a global pandemic

this year

i have been busy
one way and another

she says the swifts are leaving….

look at you promoted from the use for which you were designed

a white enamel was desired
yet a galvanised was ordered

and though come lovely also
came too big for the space so

used to carry in the exotic logs
which help the environment and
crumble on the floor otherwise if
not contained somehow

the problem continued upstairs
so we moved you there yesterday

a new chapter
a new purpose

you succeeded nicely

i too reflect this story
start a new chapter
without purpose

really

and accept the predictions
as they seem to come correct

it was not a thought as such
more of a knowing

there is a photograph

come random