Whipped in chains.
Emotionally stale;
Like breadcrumbs, scattered on a hot tin roof.
For cats to paw:
Touching paper, feeling scorched.
Left to my own devices
Leaping from trumped-up barges
On a river of discontent
Filling a larder with bullets
Shot for a purpose.
Crushed into a soluble escape mechanism:
Just wishing with lively lighthouse keepers.
Washed away, in waves of passing greetings.
Gesturing in a gentle way;
Whilst living life with sequins that sparkle against pink plastered walls.
The old lady knits
Two perfect jumpers in tandem
Released from prisms of light
Reflected on the tarnished mirror
Beacons lit to describe the neighbour's vision
Too hard to resist the soft dressed mistress
Anchor revealed
And set in timeless motion
Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee 31th August 2015
