You sure as spit used to be somebody
and remember it – vaguely; wasn’t a
singular entity, that bit clings with an
assurance there was plurality right or
wrong and ‘we’ sang the tune. Seems
so long ago it is dreamlike now, dims
to shadowed one-dimensional fugues
vested in blindly scattered leaves
What’s left plays mind-games but has
no credibility, has no motives to wage
a war on loneliness except to recover
the better memories for safe-keeping,
a project guaranteed to singularly fail,
just like the idea we were ever ‘we’
© 29 October 2012, I. D. Carswell
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