* stone death *
These lonely paths
Lost shores of imagination
Cast up upon shoals of sober reality
Beached from joy and passion
Instead steady beat of mediocrity
A mundane rattle in my head
Madness of unadulterated domesticity
As if all life were drained and dead
The doors and shutters closed
An off season hotel emptiness
Own thoughts echo in a place
Which should be crowded with creativity
Every loose washer dripping tap
Every metronomes constant chat
Marking time escaping
While devoid of challenge love or laughter
I die and shrivel up a little
With every passing tick
And at every escaping tock.
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