This morning I have been writing poetry, and so for a post today let me share one of my poems from my to-be-published Burning Archive collection.
The unwritten book
Your secret will die with me, never-ending tome,
without interrogation of your catechism.
Together we conspire for a life of dull ease,
Turning away from office, plastic and chatter,
To find in lazy days St Antony’s precedent –
the world can change when we withdraw from this forged world.
You demand devotion and you rarely praise –
Each effort falls into silence, succumbs to depth.
Never knowing your reader, never striking home,
Never pronouncing those words you read quietly right.
Yet you stand within me, a ruin demanding speech
To interpret interpretation in spite of
The ripples of silence that cross my bedevilled
serotonin machine. Disaster is written
In fragments, scarred by stars, in a sealed and bound text
That lies obscurely in wait for my failure.
But you will not trap me there: you will fail, not I.
The book will become a vision, broken with bread.
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