Craig Roberts
Falling From The Clouds And Mind Of A Solitaire Player
Such a long way down he thought before being pushed overboard by the solitaire player He’s continuing the fall into a chasm of sheer depths And even fresh strong arms cannot catch him And even old and useful hands keep losing grip Even if he may or continue to adore them They cannot keep track from the clouds Of every moment Every conscious sculpture made of concrete And at present resistant to weathering. All around is black. All around is dark. All around are reminders of forgotten wishes and non-followed dreams. All around are eyes Watching. All around are ears Listening. All around are mouths Silent. All he can think is ‘there must be a place to land.’
Page(s) 37
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