Sunday, 6 September 2009

Unfathomable It

Is this it,
Unfathomable it,
Cruel mundane,
A heart to maim.

Every breath, the blood does drain,
Playing this damn waiting game.

In such maelstrom, amongst the fog,
In such vain, a useless cog,
For once the waiting will cease,
The ironing out, at the crease,
It all just continues plodding along,
No standstill, end, fuss or song.
Barely memory, hardly a sign,
Not even a shadow, a faint outline.

That is it.
Unfathomable it.
Otiose, but It.

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