There is an invisible symmetry thought – but not seen
It can be sensed, felt, smelt, only the few can know
Teaching of this; a failing of words and their meaning
In this real tower, of tongue and ear a Babelistic jungle
The gospel of the breed of the want of an ‘I’
The strange fear that lurks on; and again, in and on.
Over the gutter from the early stewing private fury
It is upon this on which we walk live and breathe
The day-to-day the whys and wherefores – are lost
The strange fumbling. A blindness – where an ear is king
In the private worlds the peoples forced judgements make
And forget their own fractures in their own heroic worlds.
The mists portray what isn’t yet, and yet appears as if tangible
The gutter drawing time in its own gravitational pull.
The mean and the woman click on the same field –
Somehow playing different games for a single result
The cold winter takes and leaves ready for ‘the tomorrow’
Unwritten- there is originality in the everyday – time ticks
The setting sun, leaving the fairies and fantasy
For the night’s dream and tomorrow that must day must not come.