Monday, 9 October 2017

Nature Morte

Museum of 
lost thoughts.
Tubes of paint
Like ends of  toothpaste Discarded,
Congealed and fossilised into curled snails.
Empty jars,
Amphora of coiled threads
Layers of consciousness and
brittle husks of ideas
No longer pour.
Poker straight and lifeless,
Hair-hardened brushes,  Free-flowed once
As squirrels and badgers, romp in forest glades, 
Barely whisper now of sweat, joy and fear,
 And chestnut horses which tossed glossy manes and tails.
Instead,
Cold tiles,
Long since fired with honeyed glaze,
Gather dust and
Stale memories.

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