The mould

Your feathers bear the weight of days

Absorbing the shift and the shuffle

Of the dreams and malaise.

A third of a life captured

In the nest of a mould,

You are plumped and cried into

Cradles for the cold.

Inside your fabric are stories once uttered,

Are scents of the sacred that have all but since fluttered.
Bedtime journeys make up your domain
You steady the course as the mind takes its train.

The receipt

At 16:07 I was served by Sarah

But something told me those words didn't dare her,

Trapped behind a counter where not even her name

Could make her a memory

Could provide some acclaim.

What a tragedy they are

Those words that receipt

From a noone, a nameless, of whom we don't speak.

The day

Cometh the storm

To shake up the day

To awaken the sleepers

To forsake the delay.

To counter the continual roll and repeat
To break out and bust

The rhythm of nonchalant feet.