Slow bleed

We don’t talk about things we don’t talk about
which is a roundabout way of saying something,

I said something once, but it was carried away by
a wind that came in over the bay to some foreign quarter.

Innuendo as far as these things go and I’m not so sure
that I know what it means.

Blunt and pointless, this
existence under duress or
in a harness, but
I am tied to it by these
sinews which tie together
my bones,

I don’t get that less is more
it seems to be more or less
a placebo.

The tape remains blank
thank silence for that.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.