Bombed out

A fractal of a fractured society
the ghost that lingers after they
fired me
the smell in the drains when it rains
the nip that you feel in the air
when no one is there.
I could be lost in space,
would you care?

no?
but don’t you know that
I am the floating-point
the tip of the sword, the
colours that run off the rainbows back

taking flack already and this isn’t done yet,
but there’s nothing I get that I haven’t had before
things that I lost in
spaces that cost me a fortune of ways
and in places where days faded into the
faces I knew

all for a kaleidoscopic twist of fate
the
fractal,
my mentor
my mate,

© 2019, John Smallshaw.