unravelling1 Everything

Everything’s so full of lasts,
quivering, on the brink.
Time thrusts forward.
The body vehicle will not cease
decaying, children growing
ever distant, the umbilicus unraveling
to unbearable lengths
as we circumvent this world.

Pause pause pause!

People pass by in a slurry
of incessant transformation.

Surely there must be a limit?
(There is not.)

Death, inbuilt in those I’ve born
is yet half grown in me;
close to flowering powerfully out
of my grandmother’s powdery furrows.

Routine lends the illusion of solace:
tranquilised to truth we sleep
fitfully, swaddled against horror.

* First published in Bluepepper


8 thoughts on “Everything

  1. Wow powerful as always Michele! And as synchronicity weaves its magic this morning the only other response I can find for your words is what I read this morning on Jeff Foster’s Facebook Page “Sometimes in doing nothing
    everything is undone,
    and love is revealed to be
    the only true medicine.” x

  2. Routine, sometimes I think it stows us from the chaotic, when at other times I find it renders an ordinary colour palette. Does one need routine survive, or does routine need us to live?

    But for the thoughts within the poems collective, it does paint a living art between where we find ourselves.

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