Be a mug to claim you ain’t had
words that made less sense
than anger’s measurement of
mordancy; it’s in that aching gap
you fell to wedge yourself afore
the bell was finally dinged – and
welcome as it might have been
it didn’t really end the round
On silent days you hear their
sound – they’re words which ring
less rancour now, but still absurd
and shameful vows that earned
the space you tend alone as
yours to waste seclusion in
© 16 July 2012, I. D. Carswell
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