What is there?
Can you find it, stood there in your good shoes, behind the pasta, a disastrous conclusion?
The void doesn't answer it just expands,
Tarmacked fields witness under floodlights the play of ancients,
Shadows bleeding into darkness as it consumes,
Flesh retreats the shrinking violets of bone and sinew.
Do we grasp the past whilst dancing like celebrants at some mad Sabbat, often colliding all un-heeding?
"We must be off our trolleys".
It's Christmas all year but Christmas is never here!
Is it sentient perhaps or just conceit that consciousness should waste its gaze on us?
Still there is warmth sun-dogging around the "halo",
A smile of ; "That's not mine it's yours"
As we struggle, near bereft of hope, not to be the whores we feel."
("Wolf's Head": The Poetry of #Arafel: https://twitter.com/i/moments/926378311365820416 )