Thinking was seeing through the time,
was a lone journey from naïve understanding.
Return was difficult, back to bricks and forlorn shores.
How many beginnings had failed;
the doors locked, cobwebs, dust, smoke,
crowded with dangling hopes.
Flywheels broken.
DNA twisted,
life – in – heaps.
The purpose, warts and all, salvation,
as long as footnotes guided between restless nights.
Melancholy of space in the bed.
Silence of portraits.
A peacock explodes,
defining the boundary,
then a chorus of approval.
An owl hoots.
The candle kisses the creases of dark.
Moon swells.
