By Sean Wright

Falling. Slow motion, one
second riding high; Godlike
on the back of a horned beast,
the next it plants, kicks quicker
than the eye can catch. But blood
knows.

Blood sounds the warning gong
as everything fractures; fine
hairline cracks on the inside
of a bone china cup.

Look
up; count back from one hundred
in sevens, logic over
exact calculation. Keep
moving down the list ‘till
what’s broken is found. Sometimes
nothing can be done – patience,
time.

Godhood’s a delusion –
I’m the rampaging beast,
and the china pieces
in one.


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