Bombs away

Moving twice as fast to catch up with the past,
but making no headway at all.

Standing still will do me.
thoughts of a tree
but
even trees fall
eventually.

On Sunday I pray.

The church bells have rung
I am hoisted and hung by my
own petard,
‘Hamlet; always thus, hard
to understand?

If I slow down I
go down,
to sink or to surface?
to swallow my fate or
to steal one more kiss?

it’s always about this in the end.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.