maybe real disaster comes slow like the mould that grows
in the disuse of empty homes. The living haunt the dead,
tug at their toes for something to remember them by.
the silence of the skies seems like a warning to the blind,
reaching for their tattered umbrellas in the heat of July.
i kept all my secrets stirred in a teacup by my bed,
in its bitter residue and the messy corner of my head,
where all forgotten things must filter to when out of use
where street-signs lead back to when the world is confused
back at the bottom of my cup, the things we must lose.
turn these words into sphinxes that shrug the sand off their wings
to fill the tenebrous hourglass right up to the brim
let loose all the wrath they promised to us for our sins
let the world collapse like Samson’s pillars fell on him
let it bury me in the moist earth of love’s tender deceit
ground to dust and ashes and tea-leaves.