Three years back
I would have cried for the lack
of what was missing.
And, in spite of recording it
there and then on a page, again
and again I would have pined over it,
sucked it dry, a spider's prey
Now, in the shade of a rather
horrible maturity,
I laugh at what I write
for it means nothing.
I had to 'spark over' somehow
and it seemed the best way,
a sort of trick to ease the day
to a soft bedded sleep
in cool sheets alone.