Slowly the remnants of self assemble
around the grasps and grips of what
passes for memory. It was this it was
that insists above the burn traces
of what do you call it? - death. That
which waits on us all, like a creditor,
like the letter you never wanted,
wiping from all records the truth
you thought you held. How small,
how fragile our selves, in the face
of reflections never wanted. Breath,
the rhyme calls, misting in its words
the not we are, the faces of once
we thought as ours, we thought, we
thought we stupidly thought.
David Bircumshaw
Spectare's Web, A Chide's Alphabet
& Painting Without Numbers
http://www.chidesalphabet.org.uk
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