Revolving hands pass torn lands
As ashen faced children rummage cans
Plans, insectoid calculations
A large room, up high spin
Blurry slow, humming
     Dead noise fans

I find no time for sinking whens
This now here, or nothing we depend
But each other, and ground
Each lost, spilled, given
Wake up
     Or Dream

Did you hear that sound
Found, go round
Deep gorges
Strange towns
          Not seen before
  Or ever recalled

One of those misty days, not surely remembered…


Published by Tom Lopes