Tuesday, 3 November 2015

Five Minutes in a Scunny Carpark, on a Wet November Evening, Trying to Think Profound Thoughts, before writing a Rondeau Redouble.



I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And flit about in search of something rare:
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie,
Waiting for a chance encounter with a butterfly.
I sit in solitude and do not care
I'll find some bright, new flower if I try,
I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
Eluded by this blossom small and fair.
I touch on things which do not multiply,
On war and peace and even upon prayer.
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And inexperienced find only "why?"
No sophisticated daisy chain leads where
Philosophy brings clarity, I sigh
And flit about in search of something rare
A random Googling for something to declare
Unique, original, my own which will defy
All counter argument.  Instead I find I share
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie
With stupid pigs, which come out of their sty
To drag in trivia and to layer
It in between the flowers; and that they satisfy.
I'm a mental Mail Online; I am despair.
I sit in blackness.

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