I've done some catching up today. Today's assignment was to write a poem that uses anaphora. I'm not sure if I've done this properly but time is up for today so here it is:
Always
the conceivable and the preposterous
the fine line between love and madness
the fingers. the years. transference.
we are always talking about things
that matter and never the things
that don't. Those trifles of import like
temperature. flavours. volume.
we are always, always talking as if
there are uncertainties. Or like fate
is something we could identify,
were it real and present, right now.
we are never the ones to abandon
expectation. Imagine that; to forgo logic
and relinquish always knowing
what happens next.
No comments:
Post a Comment