Occasionally, I pick a title with supreme confidence, thinking there’s a distinct direction for the work to go in. Then when I start writing, everything that was considered and planned for summarily gives me the finger and walks away, leaving brain with a new and (often amazing) alternate direction to travel. This poem is a case in point.

What heart wanted to write about was not the direction brain required or needed.

In the end, it has worked out for the best regardless.


Alone frightened sliver
cries fitful, mirrored tears
breaking skin, punctured:
confidential data breach
record damaged anger;
yet, still all my fault.

Inside reflective thought
emotional triage,
emergency fix:
grift-wrap remains, consequence;
truths ignored, far too long,
yet, still all at fault.

Outside World points; laughing,
ridiculous woman
breaking sanctity;
self-possessed, pointless tirade
as if we are to blame:
yes, still all your fault.

Upward only distance
enlightenment beckons;
kindness, renaissance
embrace co-operation
this future is for all,
yell: no-one at fault.

Downwards, rain is pouring
sad men’s wasted dawning;
subjugate power
desirous of possession:
never yours to own,
no, still all your fault.

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