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We wrote ourselves into a corner

Where our convolutions
were mistaken
for revolution.


The circle diminishes
a shrinking diameter
where theories abound
and ultimately
we will run out of room to manoeuvre.

Corners
curving around us
in no particular formation
and all directions.

Your pen
is a feathered quill
still dripping from
the ink I provided.

Mine
a raw bone
not quite picked clean
the flesh
still clinging tenaciously
to give a hint of colour
in an otherwise
white expanse.

You ask me to write tomorrows mood
the rise and fall of weeping
as it catches our defeat
as
it
draws down on unpaid debts
as it
slides beneath thin skin to
stripped tendons of emotion
naked to the stinging air.

Breathe in
and feel the ache.