A fractal of a fractured society
the ghost that lingers after they
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?
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
© 2019, John Smallshaw.