I am the first person to admit my so-called poetry is sub-par, but if I don’t air it here, it will remain in some jotter or other and never see the light of day again.
Strike, counter point and contrasting.
A cacophony of awkward silences, moments in transit;
We erect monuments to our memories,
Anticipating an arrival at some final conclusion.
And throw our futures to the four winds,
Bemoaning the instability of our lean-to lives.