rip tiredness
tired of searching, lugging, peering, failing,
nagged by certainty that if he found it,
or if they, discovering themselves
to him, through half-dreamt chance, by half-remembered
waking, longing, long-abandoned planning,
buried deep within forgotten books;
or crushed beneath a pile of magazines
long semi-read while meaning drained away;
or dwelling with a creche of much-loved toys
whose lovers, grown and gone, had bid adieu;
or furniture awaiting skilled repair
and warm return to rooms that never were;
or, trapped within soft piles of sleepless blankets,
confidants of truth to aid his quest;
or relics from the homes of hard departed,
promising solutions to life’s puzzles
only if he’d brave his torch to read them;
or, tucked beyond in some far crevice,
out of reach, denying his spent grasp,
he lay in darkness under his dark roof.
[…]
slipping the ripper between the flat slates,
its flat body subverting their reign of opacity,
feeling its nose tap against the old nail,
he adjusted its tooth to engage in the darkness
and pulled out the nail…
[…]
…and began his ascent
to the light and the sky and his future beyond…
[…]
Paul Rapley 2025 #NoFuture
#poemsabout #NoFuture #KeepWriting
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
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knocked out quickly - interrupted by a person from Porlock
gaps to be filled...