we’re frayed, clutching at our own threads
things rattling round in loosely connected heads
memory foams on the beds
like the steam of dreams
is puffing up the sense of self
taking things down off the shelf
that should have been forgotten
that have moulded or gone rotten
we are moving through monochrome scenes
all our children locked to screens
no one knows what anything means
unless they lean on regurgitation
call repetition education
and seem to lack a destination
i sometimes pick up the pieces of my head
which landed in a jigsaw
and announced itself dead
i wonder how i can be something much more complete
and move way from the rumours of self defeat
sleep on a blank sheet
and learn to master
life as tabula rasa