You are fleetingly observed, as you look back at us, and the space
You cling for dear life onto the blu-tack - mostly, on the wall
You are fibrous, rare, breathing layers of death upon death
in skin, bones, flesh and ink
The environment is not becoming of you. Witnesses see your age in the damp-yellowed stain of your edges; your tiring of this dank weight
They see fragility in deckle edge, torn undulating boundaries
Unique…thinking at the edges
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Amuse to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.