like . . .

land slides beneath my feet
like so many leaves of paper
laid one on top the other
blown from the writer’s desk
so many words written thereon
fossilised like sea creatures
stuck in layers of thoughts
splitting me like shale or slate
sliced through like sliced meat
an autopsy of all my years
grown like the rings in a tree
concentric yet linear years
graphite grey like the clouds
teetering and tottering on edges
cliff edges that crumble
that dream
when land starts moving
and your arms flail like windmills
and you tilt
and you call out
but you’re already on the move
paper and words blowing all around
the white of sky and surf
of gulls and paper
and chalk skulls
. . . .

8 thoughts on “like . . .

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