Sky Writer
Our voices met in a bar
whilst knocking back tears.
We fell, quite steeply off the narrow
breaking down a thousand futures
in promises of sand dune mist.
Where love leaned on love,
those mighty fell to earth
down that spiral staircase
to where the low notes live.
I hate love,
it rips vowels from my words
pulls me toward impossibles,
with a merry head
hypnotising me to some cloudy words
scrolled across a vivid blue sky
in biplane ink.
I need a stopper,
to keep emptiness from running in.
It’s far too keen, too energetic,
can’t someone hold it back,
tie its shoe laces together,
handcuff it to a chair
or something?
Jerry Pike
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