Nothing.

Nothing, as it comes to me
is buckling under fire from me,
the higher I climb, treading over
broken stretches of imagination.

A violent stance here, all

alone.

Clasping the rifle of words,
guttering the ream or so, for knowing
the chance of being heard is blowing,

... in the take-away wind.

A hollow, rigid rhyming spell,
a dropping knell. A reminder of losses
I honestly must have known I would be baiting here,
and now I stop to openly stare.

Down the sights of our empty streets,
worn like a sick-bag. Thrown amid crumpled
cans and broken glass, paper, plastic, cardboard
food cartons - crawling, falling, spitting, rolling.

Calling out their attitude

a rotten, core gargle of rat-food and it's poison.
For no other reason, than it grasps outward when it gives,
at values drawn down to somewhere sweet and chased,

made so base with nasty haste.

I stand here, shaken by romance
while clasped tightly by my inaction - a lack of ability,
a common sterility - to boldly make the momentum pass
all inertially bound, undriven eyes - and yet

.... why would I want to call them over?

I do not. I will and must not faulter from my own falling.
For we are all free and calling out our attitude.

What is wrong with them?

by Gareth Rosser

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