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Nothing
EB (19.10.76 / Reading)

Nothing

Poem By Emma Barrett

Nothing but the ticking of the clock,
the non-stop,
the irremovable blot;
the ceaseless movement forward into
nothing.

Nothing but wondering why
the time does fly,
or of the size of the sky,
or why we cry,
or even bother to try.

Nothing.
But there must be a point
to our creaking joints,
a meaning
for this facade called 'feeling'.

Nothing but old photographs
in an out of date frame,
of a long remembered name;
which will still only fade to
nothing.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

You really hit my target.


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