(An idea of how others might see us).
Your considered indignation
drives the hearse
carrying the corpse
of my sorry, spent infatuation
towards its unmarked grave.
As I see it interred,
from a discreet distance
my wizzened frame, hollowed out
falls like a paper bag
spilling crumbs of pathetic prose.
These littering skerricks,
tumbling unheard
you deftly sweep with bare toes
into the vacant tomb
together with your departing naivety.
©Graham Sherwood 08/2014
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